THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


CONTEMPORARY 
BELGIAN    LITERATURE 


CONTEMPORARY 
BELGIAN  LITERATURE 


BY 

JETHRO   BTTHELL 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK   A.  STOKES   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


«k      «t 


College 
lihrary 


CONTENTS 

CBAP.  PAGE 

Preface vii 

I.  Belgian  Literature  till  1880 11 

II.  The  Standard  of  Revolt 42 

III.  Camille  Lemonnier 60 

IV.  Georges  Eekhoud 85 

V.  6mile  Verhaeren 108 

VI.  Maurice  Maeterlinck 150 

VII.  The  Symbolist  Poets 190 

VIII.  The  Parnassian  Poets 253 

IX.  Eugene  Demolder 264 

X.  Flemish  Novelists  and  Dramatists       .       .       .  279 

XI.  Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists     .       .       .  289 

XII.  Novelists  in  Flemish  .......  314 

XIII.  Poets  in  Flemish .       .  329 

XIV.  Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars     ....  354 

Bibliography 373 

Note 379 

Index 380 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/contempbelgianlitOObithiala 


PREFACE 

The  present  sketch  of  contemporary  Belgian  litera- 
ture lays  no  claim  to  completeness.  Belgium  to- 
day teems  with  writers  of  merit ;  and  to  have  dealt 
adequately  with  all  of  them  would  have  needed  a 
series  of  volumes  padded  with  academic  detail. 
The  publisher  and  the  author  have  for  the  moment 
no  farther  ambition  than  to  stimulate  interest,  and 
to  give  information  which  is  so  sadly  lacking  in 
this  country  that  some  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  Belgian  poets  are  living  in  exile  in  London  un- 
noticed and  without  a  welcome,  making  munitions 
(all  honour  to  them),  or  living  as  they  can. 

There  have  been  great  difficulties  of  selection  ; 
and  there  are  many  authors  whom  I  have  read  with 
profit  who  are  not  even  mentioned.  In  some  in- 
stances it  has  not  been  easy  to  decide  whether  an 
author  is  Belgian  or  otherwise.  Huysmans  was  of 
Flemish  parentage,  but  since  he  was  born  in  Paris 

it  is  no  doubt  best  to  consider  him  a  Frenchman. 

vii 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

The  brothers  J.  H.  Rosny,  who  rank  with  the  very 
best  of  contemporary  French  novelists,  might  with 
some  justice  have  been  claimed  as  Belgian  writers, 
for  they  are  Belgians  born,  and  they  lived  in 
Brussels,  I  am  told,  till  well  on  in  their  teens.  But 
they  have  been  so  long  resident  in  France  that  they 
might  possibly  resent  being  docketed  as  Belgians. 
There  is  the  same  difficulty  with  regard  to  Francis 
de  Croisset  and  Henry  Kistemaeckers,  the  only 
Belgian-born  playwrights  who  have  become  natural- 
ised on  the  Paris  stage.  Henry  Van  de  Velde, 
again,  lives  in  Germany  and  writes  in  German ; 
Paul  G^rardy,  most  Belgian  of  Belgians,  is  a 
denaturalised  Prussian ;  while  L6on  Souguenet  is 
French-born  but  Belgian  by  habit. 

There  is  always  the  question  whether  "  Belgian 
literature  "  exists  at  all.  ...  I  have  indicated  in  the 
course  of  the  book  that  some  eminent  Belgian 
writers  will  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  And,  after 
all,  one  never  hears  of  Swiss  literature.  .  .  .  That 
may  be,  however,  because  there  are  so  few  Swiss 
writers  of  international  reputation.  Belgium,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  not  only  rich  in  distinguished 
writers,  but  these  writers  have  a  marked  Belgian 


vm 


Preface 

individuality,  and  for  these  reasons  we  are  surely 
justified  in  claiming  a  national  literature  (one  of  the 
most  interesting  in  Europe  to-day)  for  the  little 
country  over  which  the  Germans  have  ridden 
rough-shod. 

To  the  living  writers  of  Belgium  this  book 
would  express  a  practical  sympathy  by  calling 
attention  to  their  work.  They  will  need  readers 
after  the  war  ;  and  they  deserve  them. 

J.  BITHELL. 


IX 


CONTEMPORARY 
BELGIAN     LITERATURE 

CHAPTER   I 
BELGIAN   LITERATURE  TILL    1880 

The   best   help   in    the    appreciation   of    Belgian 

literature   is   an   understanding    of    the   course   of 

Belgian  history.     Belgian  literature,  quite  as  much 

as  Belgian  history,  is  a  record  of  warfare,  an  epic  of 

invasions  ventured  and  invasions  repulsed,  and  of 

the  clash  of  hostile  races  within  the  country  itself. 

From  without,  two  avid  nations  stretch  out  their 

armies  to  seize  the  soil  of  the  land ;  from  within, 

two  cultures  that  refuse  to  intermingle  advance  and 

recede  in  their  struggle  for  the  heart  and  soul  of 

the  state.     And   it   is   in   our  own  days  that  this 

age-long  contest  has  reached  the  exasperation  of 

its  violence :  never  was  the  fight  between  Teuton 

and  Frank  so  desperate  as  it  is  to-day,  and  never 

II 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

has  the  racial  animosity  flamed  more  in  the  elo- 
quence of  orators  and  the  passion  of  poets  than  it 
has  done  during  the  last  thirty  years  between  the 
Yser  and  the  Rhine. 

This  struggle  for  supremacy  between  two  races  is 
at  the  same  time  a  struggle  between  two  languages, 
between  French  and  German.  These  languages 
were  first  officially  opposed  to  each  other  when,  in 
the  year  842,  the  two  sons  of  Louis  the  Pious 
met  near  Strassburg  and  took  an  oath  to  support 
each  other.  Each  monarch  swore  in  the  language 
spoken  by  the  people  of  the  other :  Charles 
the  Bald  of  France  in  German,  and  Louis  the 
German  in  French.  Here  for  the  first  time  lan- 
guage faces  language  in  a  momentous  episode 
of  history.  In  the  following  year,  843,  the  soli- 
darity of  tribes  speaking  the  same  language  was 
set  at  nought  when,  by  the  Treaty  of  Verdun,  the 
empire  of  Charlemagne  was  divided  among  the 
three  sons  of  Louis  the  Pious,  for  by  this  treaty 
the  Scheldt  was  fixed  as  the  western  boundary  of 
the  buffer  state  created  for  Lothar,  who  thus  found 
himself  master  of  a  portion  of  what  is  now  Flanders, 

while  the  remainder  of  the   Flemish  country  was 

12 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

attached  to  Neustria,  that  is,  France.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  French-speaking  tribes  to  the  East  of 
the  Scheldt  were  incorporated  in  Lothar's  kingdom, 
which,  as  far  as  the  North  is  concerned,  was  mainly 
German  in  language. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  Teutonic 
language  spoken  in  the  ninth  century  on  either 
bank  of  the  Scheldt  was  essentially  the  same 
language  as  that  spoken  along  the  Rhine :  in 
primitive  stock  it  was  the  German  language,  which 
split  into  Low  German  and  High  German,  or,  as 
we  say  now,  Dutch-Flemish  and  German,  but  still 
kept  all  the  resemblances  of  close  kinship.  Even 
at  the  present  day,  from  the  philological  point  of 
view,  there  is  not  much  more  than  a  difference 
in  consonants  between  Dutch  or  Flemish  and  the 
High  German  spoken  at  Berlin  ;  and  there  is  still 
less  difference  between  the  language  spoken  by  the 
common  people  in  North  Germany,  plattdeutsck, 
and  Dutch  or  Flemish. 

The  rivalry  between  Teutonic  and  French  cul- 
ture sharpened  into  savage  animosity  under  the 
Counts  of  Flanders :    while  in  the  thirteenth  and 

fourteenth  centuries  the  aristocracy  was  French  in 

13 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

spirit,  the  burghers  remained  staunchly  Flemish ; 
and  the  parties  which  then  received  the  names 
of  Leliaerts  (adherents  of  the  French  lilies)  and 
Clauwaerts  (those  who  held  by  the  Flemish  clawing 
lion)  were  the  forerunners  of  the  fransquillons  and 
the  flamingants  of  to-day.  No  comprehension  of 
Belgian  literature  is  possible  unless  we  keep  these 
racial  and  party  differences  in  mind.  We  must 
class  Belgian  writers :  firstly,  as  Flemings  or 
Walloons ;  secondly,  as  adherents  of  French  cul- 
ture or  of  Germanic  (Dutch-Flemish)  culture. 
These  are  the  simple  lines  of  cleavage ;  but  they 
do  not,  as  we  shall  see,  preclude  complications. 
The  racial  distinction  in  particular  is  often  illusory : 
thus,  the  Flemish  writer  Max  Elskamp  had  a 
Walloon  mother,  while  the  Walloon  poet  I  wan 
Gilkin  had  a  Flemish  mother. 

That  part  of  Belgian  literature  which  is  French 
in  expression,  "la  littdrature  beige  d'expression 
fran^aise,"!  is  mostly  the  work  of  the  Walloons,  a 
race  of  Celtic  extraction — the  descendants  of  the  old 
Galliae  or  Belgae — who  were  Romanised  at  an  early 

^  This    term,   first  used   by   Francis    Nautet   in   his  history  of 
Belgian  literature,  has  been  generally  adopted. 

14 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

date.  It  would  serve  no  purpose  in  this  sketch 
to  attempt  to  define  exactly  the  boundaries  of  the 
Walloon  country ;  but  we  may  say  roughly  that 
the  provinces  of  Hainaut,  Namur,  and  Li^ge  are 
Walloon — with  the  town  of  Li^ge  as  the  literary 
capital — while  of  the  other  provinces  of  Belgium 
Antwerp,  West  Flanders,  East  Flanders,  and 
Limburg  are  almost  wholly  Flemish.  Brabant 
is  mainly  Flemish.  Luxemburg  is  Walloon  and 
German. " 

That  part  of  Belgian  literature  which  is  Dutch 
in  expression  is  the  work  of  the  Flemings.  All 
educated  Flemings  know  French,  and  some  of 
them  (Verhaeren,  for  instance)  have  never  taken 
the  trouble  to  master  Flemish.  How  far  the  native 
Flemish  of  a  writer  colours  his  French  style  is 
often  a  fascinating  problem ;  especially  as  the 
young  Flemish  authors  of  the  modern  school 
aim  at  reproducing  their  racial  individuality  in 
their  French  style. 

The  Walloon    writers   are,   practically   without 

exception,  purists.     They  write  the  French  of  Paris. 

The  Flemings,  on  the  other  hand,  are  not  always 

purists :  they  do  not  all  write  the  standardized  form 

15 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

of  their  language,  which  is  Dutch.  The  poems 
of  Guido  Gezelle,  for  instance,  are  deliberately 
Flemish  in  vocabulary  and  turn  of  phrase.  Just 
as  Bjornstjerne  Bjornsen  in  Norway,  and  the 
writers  of  his  school,  the  rebels  of  the  maal- 
strcBv,  eschewed  the  pure  Danish  of  Copen- 
hagen to  write  what  they  considered  to  be  the 
Norwegian  tongue,  so  Guido  Gezelle,  and  with 
him  a  tribe  of  "  regional "  writers,  have  preferred 
to  write  the  language  they  heard  spoken  about 
them  rather  than  lose  sap  and  vigour  by  adapting 
their  local  idiom  to  written  Dutch.  Their  inten- 
tions were  justifiable,  and  the  results  have  approved 
them ;  for  Flemish  literature,  far  from  striking 
literary  Dutchmen  as  an  uncouth  patois,  turns  out 
to  have  much  the  same  charm  as  kaleyard  has 
for  readers  in  the  south  of  England.  To  foreign 
readers,  however,  there  is  one  great  drawback :  the 
Dutchman  can  guess  the  meaning  of  a  vocable, 
but  the  foreigner  who  is  learning  the  language  has 
to  rely  on  a  Dutch  dictionary,  and  here  he  will  look 
in  vain  for  many  words  which  are  purely  Flemish. 
There   is  the  greatest   difference   between  the 

spirit  of  the  literature  written  by  the   two   races. 

i6 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

Generalisations  are  always  subject  to  exceptions, 
but  one  may  venture  to  adapt  an  idea  of  Balzac 
and  say  that  while  the  literature  written  by  Walloons 
is  a  literature  of  ideas,  the  literature  written  by 
Flemings,  whether  in  French  or  Flemish,  is  a 
literature  of  images.  The  Walloons  think;  the 
Flemings  paint.  The  Walloons  are  logicians, 
masters  of  the  correct  outline ;  the  Flemings  are 
dreamers  and  colourists.  The  Walloons  have  pro- 
duced no  realists  of  distinction,  for  they  are  too 
speculative  and  selective  for  that  form  of  art ;  the 
Flemings,  with  their  ideal  of  matter  magnified, 
have  flung  themselves  into  realism  and  out-Zolaed 
Zola,  but  their  realism  is  almost  always  a  dream- 
realism,  in  which  dirt  itself  ferments  with  poetry. 
The  play  of  fancy,  the  scintillation  of  ideas  of 
the  Walloons  is  opposed  by  the  monumental  vision, 
the  glowing  ecstasy  of  the  Flemings.  On  the  one 
side,  philosophy ;  on  the  other,  mysticism.  In  the 
Walloons  there  is  the  cult  of  exquisite  form ;  in 
the  Flemings  there  is  a  formlessness  which  often 
(as  in  Georges  Eekhoud's  novels)  swamps  a 
grandiose   conception.      In   the  Walloons  there  is 

the  inevitable ;  in  the  Flemings,  the  sublime. 

17  B 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

A  few  words  are  necessary  as  to  the  use  in 
Belgium  of  the  two  languages.  When,  after  the 
taking  of  Antwerp  by  the  Duke  of  Parma  in  1585, 
Belgium  entered  on  a  period  of  intellectual  listless- 
ness,  the  Flemish  language,  which  had  been  illus- 
trated by  poets,  artists,  and  scholars,  fell  into  disuse ; 
and  when  Napoleon  incorporated  Belgium  in  the 
French  Empire  he  eliminated  it  altogether  and 
made  French  the  only  official  language.  It  was  not 
till  after  the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  which  Professor 
Paul  Fredericq  of  Ghent  calls  "  the  dawn  of  the 
revival  in  the  Flemish  districts,"  that  the  Flemings 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  their  mother  tongue. 
The  union  with  Holland  helped  them  little,  for  by 
their  arrogant  bearing  and  direct  injustice  the  Dutch 
alienated  both  Flemings  and  Walloons.  There 
was,  moreover,  bound  to  be  a  complete  misunder- 
standing between  the  Protestants  of  Holland  and 
the  Roman  Catholics  of  Belgium.  Literary  influence 
there  could  be  none,  for  to  the  Belgian  catholics 
Dutch  literature,  by  the  mere  fact  that  it  was  Pro- 
testant literature,  was  anathema,  and  the  clergy  did 
all   they  could    to  prevent  the  reading  of  Dutch 

books.     After  the  revolution  of  1830,  which  resulted 

i8 


Belgian  Literature  till  1880 
in  the  separation  of  Belgium  from  Holland,  the 
Belgian  Government  made  French  the  official 
language  again ;  but  as  time  went  on  the  Flemings 
awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  their  rights,  and 
the  "  Flemish  Movement "  began.  In  this  fierce 
struggle  against  the  supremacy  and  over-estimation 
of  the  French  language,  as  of  French  ideals,  the 
first  hero  was  J.  F.  Willems  (i 793-1 846).  It  was 
to  Holland,  and  not  to  France,  that  the  flamin- 
gants,  or  at  all  events  the  free-thinking  enthusiasts 
among  them,  looked  for  intellectual  support ;  it  was 
Teutonic,  that  is,  Dutch  and  German  culture,  not 
French  culture,  that  was  held  out  as  the  natural 
ideal  of  the  Flemings.  An  old  saw  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  that  what  is  French  is  false,^  was  revived ; 
while  a  comparison  was  made  between  the  licentious- 
ness of  French  literature  and  the  domestic  purity 
and  healthfulness  of  Teutonic  books.  The  French 
were  corrupt ;  the  Teutons  were  sound.  These 
complacent  main  ideas  of  the  Flemish  movement 
were  set  in  currency  by  J.  F.  Willems  in  his  news- 
paper articles.  He  has  left  no  work  worthy  of 
mention  ;  the  groundwork  even  of  his  philology  has 

»  "  Wat  walsch  is,  valsch  is." 
19 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

given  way :  he  must  be  remembered,  however,  as 

the  herald  of  the  Flemish  renaissance. 

But  the  man  who,  in  the  words  sculptured  on 

his  monument  at  Antwerp,  taught  the  Flemings  to 

read,  was  Hendrik  Conscience  ( 1 8 1 2- 1 883).     There 

had  been  no   popular  literature  before  his  novels 

appeared ;  and  it  would  not  be  wrong  to  call  him 

the   father   of  Modern    Flemish   literature.     It   is 

curious  that  so  Flemish  a   writer  should    be   half 

French  by  birth.     At  the  time  when  Napoleon  I 

was  pointing  a  pistol  at  the  heart  of  England  by 

turning  Antwerp  into  a  dockyard,  Pierre  Conscience, 

a    French    boatswain    who    had    suffered    a    long 

captivity  on  British  hulks,  settled  in  the  Flemish 

port  as  a  foreman  in  the  shipbuilding  yards.     He 

married  a  native  of  the  town,  a  Flemish  woman ; 

and  Hendrik  Conscience  was  their  son.     The  boy 

had   no  education  worth  speaking  of,  but  he  read 

all  the  books  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  including 

many  an  old  tome  hauled  out  of  the  rubbish  heaps 

of  his   father,  who,  after  the  fall  of  Napoleon,  had 

established  himself  in  business  as  a  paper  dealer. 

Hendrik's  health  was  delicate,  and  he  was  left  very 

much  to  himself  :  he  swam  like  a  water-rat  in  the 

20 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

Scheldt,  and  ran  about  the  streets  of  Antwerp, 
picking  up  the  legends  of  old  Flemish  life  which 
had  never  died  out  among  the  people.  This  out- 
door life,  full  of  the  stuff  of  stories,  ended  when, 
in  his  teens,  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  earn 
his  keep  as  an  usher  in  a  school,  a  thankless  posi- 
tion, in  which  his  abnormal  shyness,  which  troubled 
him  throughout  life  and  amounted  to  a  disease, 
cost  him  great  suffering.  When  the  revolution  of 
1830  broke  out,  he  enlisted  with  the  rebel  forces, 
and,  in  spite  of  his  delicate  constitution  and  dreamy 
nature,  he  would  seem  to  have  acquitted  himself 
fairly  well  in  actual  fighting.  He  has  related  his 
experiences  vividly  in  his  De  Omwenteling  van 
1830  (The  Revolution  of  1830.)  His  best  known 
work  is  De  Leeuw  van  Vlaanderen  (The  Lion  of 
Flanders),  a  historical  novel  written  round  the  Battle 
of  the  Spurs  of  Gold.  Conscience  has  been  cele- 
brated by  the  flamingants  as  one  of  the  heroes  of 
their  movement ;  he  was  anything  but  one-sided, 
however,  and  his  novel  The  Mayor  of  LUge,  with  its 
glorification  of  the  Walloons,  is  an  adequate  counter- 
poise to  his  Lion  of  Flanders.  Conscience  was  no 
partisan :    he   was  a    Belgian  patriot.     From   the 


21 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

point  of  view  of  international  literature,  his  novels 
have  little  value  :  they  have  the  maudlin  sentiment- 
ality and  the  stereotyped  romantic  characters  of 
immature  literature ;  they  are,  in  the  least  compli- 
mentary sense,  books  for  the  people. 

The  Flemish  Movement  drew  vigour  from  a 
number  of  poets  who  are  still  read.  The  influence 
of  English  poetry  is  glaringly  manifest  in  the  work 
of  Karel  L.  Ledeganck  (1805- 1847).  He  is  known 
in  his  own  country  as  "the  Flemish  Byron,"  but 
there  is  nothing  of  Byron  in  this  amiable,  hard- 
working Philistine  except  a  few  tricks  of  style. 
However,  Ledeganck  is  the  classical  Flemish  poet 
to  people  who  do  not  read  poetry ;  his  collected 
verse  in  a  gorgeous  binding  may  be  seen,  with 
The  Lion  of  Flanders,  on  the  centre  table  of  the 
Flemish  salon.  The  best  known  poem  in  the 
Flemish  tongue  was  written  by  Ledeganck :  it  is 
De  Drie  Zustersteden  (The  Three  Sister  Cities), 
a  tribute  of  sounding  rhetoric  to  the  poet's  native 
city  of  Ghent  and  her  rivals  Antwerp  and  Bruges — 
Flemish  cities  these,  so  runs  the  moral,  no  sinks  of 
iniquity  as  in  the  South.     (All  depends  on  the  point 

of  view :    according  to  another  Fleming,   Georges 

22 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

Eekhoud,  Antwerp  at  all  events  has  never  in  the 
course  of  its  history  lagged  behind  Sodom  and 
Gomorrha.) 

Ledeganck  is  the  classical  poet,  but  on  the  shelf 
or  the  costly  table-cover.  In  the  mouths  of  men  it 
is  Guido  Gezelle  (1830-1899)  who  is  most  frequently 
quoted.  Ledeganck  is  praised,  but  Guido  Gezelle 
is  loved.  "Guido  Gezelle  is  the  soul  of  Flanders," 
says  a  Flemish  poet  of  our  days,  Hugo  Verriest. 
Gezelle  was  born,  a  gardener's  son,  at  Bruges ;  he 
was  trained  as  a  priest  at  Roulers,  and  learned 
English  from  the  English  students  there.  He  was 
appointed  professeur  de  comfnerce,  teacher  of  com- 
mercial subjects  (of  which  he  knew  absolutely 
nothing)  at  Bruges.  Later  on  he  received  a  more 
congenial  post,  that  of  teacher  of  literature,  but  his 
popularity  with  the  students  and  his  independent 
ways  of  teaching  were  offensive  to  his  superiors, 
and  it  was  found  convenient  to  remove  him  to  other 
duties.  After  filling  various  minor  posts,  he  was 
given  a  curacy  at  Courtrai,  where  he  spent  twenty- 
eight  years  in  what  to  him  was  exile.  He  had  been 
in  his  element  as  a  teacher  of  literature,  and  his 

heart  is  said  to  have  been  broken  by  his  unmerited 

23 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

disgrace.  Not  till  he  was  in  his  sixty-ninth  year 
was  he  recalled  to  Bruges  to  fill  a  position  more  in 
keeping  with  his  distinction,  and  here  he  died  in 
1899.  Before  his  disgrace  he  had  published  various 
volumes  of  verse,  which  had  been  favourably  noticed 
but  had  not  become  widely  known.  Two  years 
after  his  death  a  volume  of  his  verse  was  published 
at  Amsterdam,  and  the  Dutch  immediately  hailed 
this  obscure  Flemish  priest  as  a  poet  of  the  first 
magnitude.  Since  then  his  popularity  has  grown 
continually,  and  his  best  poems  are  now  part  and 
parcel  of  Flemish  (and  Dutch)  culture.  Unfortu- 
nately, political  considerations  have  something  to 
do  with  his  vogue :  persecuted  by  the  orthodox 
party  in  his  lifetime,  he  has  been  set  up  since  his 
death  as  the  idol  of  the  Roman  Ca.tho\icJ^amtn£-an^Sy 
and  the  result  is  that  something  more  than  justice  is 
done  to  him.  He  was  often  inspired,  but  some- 
times he  was  merely  a  headlong  rhymester.  At 
his  best  he  was  a  most  delicate  poet — he  had 
something  of  the  grace  and  lightness  of  that 
other  parson  in  a  far  village,  Herrick,  as  witness 
this  playful  hymning : 

24 


I 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 


A    MAY    DAY 

The  cherry-tree,  as  you  may  see, 

Has  donned  a  robe  of  pride : 
For  it  is  May,  and  she  to-day 

Must  be  a  happy  bride. 

Her  every  bough  is  hiding  now, 

All  in  the  sunshine  bright, 
Behind  a  veil  so  pure  and  frail 

Of  blossoms  shining  white. 

When  glittering  rime  in  winter  time 

Bedecked  her,  she  was  fair  : 
But  fairer  far  her  blossoms  are 

Than  frosted  branches  bare. 

Her  beauty  then  might  show  to  men 

How  their  existence  soon 
Must  pass  in  pain,  as  cold  and  vain 

As  shadows  under  the  moon. 

But  no  disguise  to  cheat  the  eyes 

Is  this  her  bridal  dress  : 
O  she  is  dressed  indeed  in  blest 

And  living  loveliness. 

Gezelle's  pupil  Hugo  Verriest  has  published  verse 
of  distinction,  and  he  is  to-day  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  in  Belgium :  famous  as  orator,  and 

25 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

as  head  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Flemish  movement.^ 
Like  his  master,  he  has  been  relegated  by  his 
superiors  to  obscurity :  he  is  the  curate  of  Ingoy- 
ghem,  "the  remotest  village  in  the  Flemish  pro- 
vinces," a  village  which  is  doubly  famous,  because 
of  its  curate,  and  because  it  is  the  home  of  Guido 
Gezelle's  nephew,  the  novelist  Stijn  Streuvels. 
Hugo  Verriest,  unlike  Gezelle,  has  not  been  broken 
by  the  disgrace  into  which  a  Church  that  hates 
originality  has  sought  to  plunge  him  ;  indeed  he  has 
turned  it  into  strength,  and  there  is  no  Cardinal  in 
the  land  who  looms  larger  in  the  eyes  of  intelli- 
gent Roman  Catholics  than  the  fighting  curate  of 
Ingoyghem. 

Of  the  French-writing  poets  before  1880,  the 
most  important  is  Andrd  van  Hasselt  (i  806-1 874). 
Born  at  Maestricht,  he  was  by  birth  a  Dutchman, 
and  he  learned  French  by  dint  of  hard  work. 
During  a  visit  to  Paris  he  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Victor  Hugo   and  Sainte-Beuve,  and   was   by 


^  The  Flemish  Movement  is  split  into  two  hostile  camps.  The 
Roman  Catholic  section  hate  Holland  as  the  land  of  heretics ;  the 
liberal  and  free-thinking  section,  the  heads  of  which  are  Pol  de 
Mont  and  Cyriel  Buysse,  hate  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  and  are 
Dutch  (if  not  German)  in  sympathy. 

26 


Belgian  Literature  till    1880 

them  converted  to  the  Romantic  programme.  His 
masterpiece  is  the  philosophical  epic  Les  Quatre 
Incarnations  du  Christ.  Van  Hasselt  explains 
his  intentions  as  follows :  **  This  work  is  but  the 
development  of  several  verses  of  Isaiah  (chapters 
XV.,  v.,  6-9),  a  simple  expose  of  the  successive 
phases  of  the  progress  of  humanity  as  determined 
by  the  manifestation  of  the  Christian  spirit  in 
the  main  events  of  history,  until  the  complete 
realisation  on  earth  of  the  Saviour's  teaching." 
This  conception  would  repel  most  modern  readers, 
though  there  are  some  whom  it  would  attract ;  but 
in  any  case  it  is  the  idea  rather  than  the  execution 
which  forces  attention.  Andr6  van  Hasselt  has  at 
all  events  some  importance  in  the  history  of  French 
versification  by  virtue  of  his  metrical  experiments. 
He  made  determined  attempts  to  write  French 
accentual  poetry,  that  is  to  say,  verse  constructed, 
as  in  English  and  Teutonic  poetry,  by  the  regular 
iteration  of  accents,  instead  of,  as  in  French,  by 
the  counting  of  syllables. 

Maeterlinck    is   not   the   first   "popular   philo- 
sopher "   produced    by    Belgium.      Much    of    the 

charm  of  Maeterlinck's  first  essays  was  contained 

27 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

in  the  gentle  pessimism  of  Octave  Pirmez,  "the 
hermit  of  Agoz,"  as  he  is  called,  from  the  castle 
in  the  Ardennes  where  he  spent  his  days  in  medita- 
tion and  in  the  contemplation  of  nature.  At  Agoz 
he  wrote  his  Heures  de  Philosophies.  His  Jours 
de  Solitude  were  inspired  by  his  rambles  in  Italy. 
Pirmez  was  a  Walloon  mystic.  His  way  of  tran- 
scribing his  thoughts  and  sensations  reminds  one 
of  Amiel. 

There  is  one  Belgian  writer  before  1880  of 
whom  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he  is  of  equal  rank 
with  the  best  men  of  to-day.  This  is  Charles  de 
Coster.  He  was  born  at  Munich  in  1827,  in  the 
house  of  the  Apostolic  Nuncio  Count  Mercy 
d'Argenteau,  Archbishop  of  Tyr,  who  stood  god- 
father to  him.  According  to  some  investigators, 
the  Archbishop  was  himself  the  boy's  father,  the 
mother  being  a  servant  in  the  Apostolic  household. 
At  all  events  no  expense  was  spared  in  De  Coster's 
education,  and  in  the  natural  course  he  would  have 
studied  at  Louvain,  and  advanced  to  high  distinc- 
tion, if  his  character  had  not  been  wayward.  He 
was  for  a  time  a  bank  clerk,   but  ran  away  and 

struggled  along  at  the  democratic    University   of 

28 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

Brussels,  where  he  came  under  the  influence  of 
Eugene  van  Bemmel,  a  professor  of  literature  who 
is  remembered  for  a  meritorious  novel,  Dom  Placide, 
In  1854  van  Bemmel  launched  the  Revue  Trimes- 
trielle  (1854-68),  to  which  De  Coster  contributed 
his  first  prose.  In  another  Brussels  review,  Uylen- 
spiegel,  which  had  Fdicien  Rops  for  an  illustrator, 
appeared  one  of  the  short  stories  of  De  Coster's 
L^gendes  Flamandes,  a  book  which  was  hailed  with 
enthusiasm  by  discerning  critics.  These  legends, 
the  subjects  of  which  were  taken  from  Flemish 
folklore,  were  written  in  an  old  French  style,  the 
only  idiom  which  in  De  Coster's  opinion  was  fitted 
to  reproduce  the  atmosphere  of  old  Flemish  life. 
The  entanglement  of  a  love  affair  cost  the  hand- 
some and  elegant  young  author  the  suffering  which 
can  be  read  in  his  Lettres  h  Elisa,  published  after 
his  death  by  Charles  Potvin.  The  old  French  of 
Les  L^gendes  Flamandes  was  so  like  the  real  thing 
that  it  won  De  Coster  the  reputation  of  a  mediae- 
valist ;  and  in  1 860  he  was  appointed  to  the  Royal 
Commission  which  had  been  created  to  publish 
old  laws.     This  gave  him   a   chance  of  studying 

old  manuscripts,   which   he  did   with   such   profit 

29 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

that  old  French  became  to  him  as  natural  a  vehicle 
of  thought  as  the  French  of  his  own  day.  Old 
Flemish,  too,  he  knew  thoroughly ;  he  was  versed 
in  old  Flemish  authors  such  as  Marnix  van  St. 
Aldegonde.  If  he  had  had  staying  power,  his 
position  would  have  assured  him  a  competence ; 
but  he  was  too  restless,  and  in  1864  he  resigned, 
to  find  that  literature  was  a  slave-driver,  and  to 
feel  more  than  ever  what  he  called  "the  horrible 
power  of  money."  In  1861  he  had  published 
Contes  Brabangons  (in  modern  French) ;  this  book 
helped  to  establish  his  reputation,  but  did  not 
materially  help  his  financial  position. 

With  the  old  French  classics — Roman  de 
Renard,  Montaigne,  Rabelais — he  had  long  been 
familiar,  and  he  was  able  to  imitate  their  style  with 
far  greater  sureness  than  Balzac  had  done  in  his 
Contes  Drolatiques,  He  had  fortified  his  lingu- 
istic knowledge  by  solid  studies  in  mediaeval  his- 
tory, and  during  his  employment  at  the  Archives 
du  Royaume  he  had  excerpted  many  old  French 
and  Flemish  documents  relating  to  the  sixteenth 
century.     He  had  studied  the  old  chroniclers ;  van 

Meteren's  Flemish  chronicle  in  particular  he  had 

30 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

read  ten  times.  He  needed  all  his  learning  for  the 
masterpiece  of  his  life,  La  Ldgende  et  les  Aventures 
hirotques,  joyeuses  et  glorieuses  dHJlenspiegel  et  de 
Lamme  Goedzak  au  pays  de  Flandres  et  ailleurs, 
which  took  him  ten  years  to  complete.  During 
the  period  of  composition  he  roamed  about  in  the 
Netherlands,  familiarising  himself  with  the  locali- 
ties of  his  story,  visiting  the  kermesses,  listening 
to  the  racy  conversation  of  the  peasants  in  the 
taverns. 

The  Legend  of  Ulenspiegel  is  a  complex  book. 
Its  main  purpose  is  superb :  to  write  the  epic  of  the 
Flemish  race,  to  take  a  Flemish  hero  and  in  him  to 
celebrate  the  deeds  of  the  Flemings.  But  not  in 
verse,  for  that  would  take  away  the  sting  of  reality. 
It  should  be  full  of  the  immense  sadness  of  Flemish 
history,  and  yet  not  be  sad :  Flanders  should  not 
show  its  wounds  and  ask  for  pity,  it  should  jest  at 
them.  It  should  not  so  much  curse  the  Spanish 
tyrant  as  mock  him ;  it  should  show  him  impotent 
to  quell  the  joy  in  life  of  a  virile  people.  It  should 
be  a  book  of  glaring  contrasts :  Fleming  and 
Spaniard,  tolerance  and  bigotry,  should  be  opposed 

as  black  is  to  white.     All  the  life  of  Flanders  should 

31 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

be  concentrated  on  this  its  most  heroic  period,  on 
the  sixteenth  century.  Flanders  should  lose  all, 
and  yet  be  unconquered  (was  there  some  prophetic 
vision  here  ?) ;  the  hero  should  not  die — for  the 
spirit  of  Flanders  cannot  die — but  rise  again  from 
the  grave.  De  Coster  was  fain  to  sacrifice  position 
and  comfort  to  live  for  this  task  alone :  to  create 
an  atmosphere  of  poetry  and  legend  in  which  his 
countrymen  should  see  themselves  idealised  and 
yet  true ;  and  (since  Flemish  has  no  international 
significance)  he  would  write  in  the  old  French  of 
Rabelais. 

There  is  room  for  different  conceptions  of  the 
Fleming.  It  is  possibly  a  misconception  to  think 
of  him  as  a  taciturn  mystic,  with  all  his  fires  burning 
inward,  but  ready  to  burst  forth  on  provocation. 
This  may  be  true  of  the  Dutchman ;  it  may  be  true 
of  the  peasants  of  the  Campine  as  we  see  them  in 
the  novels  of  Eekhoud  and  Virr^s.  But  it  is  not 
universally  true ;  or  at  all  events  taciturnity  is  only 
one  side  of  the  Flemish  character.  Such  a  con- 
ception could  not  serve  De  Coster  for  the  purpose 
of    his    epic,    for    it    was   to   be    Rabelaisian,    not 

Calvinistic.     The  quality  which  struck  him  most 

32 


Belgian  Literature  till    1880 

in  the  Fleming  was  that  habit  of  cunning  which 
we  observed  in  the  Boers,  and  which  became 
familiar  to  us  by  its  Dutch  term,  "slim."  To  call 
it  "  foxy  "  would  be  incorrect ;  for  that  would  imply 
meanness ;  and  the  Fleming  is  hardly  mean.  He 
has  an  eye  to  the  main  chance  at  all  times ;  but 
the  typical  Fleming,  though  never  frank  and  trans- 
parent, only  develops  cunning  to  a  fine  art  when 
he  is  threatened  by  superior  force.  This  side  of 
his  nature  is  turned  forth  at  epic  length  in  the  old 
poem  of  Renard  the  Fox,  which  was  fashioned 
mainly  in  Flanders.  De  Coster  was  bound  to 
be  influenced  by  this  poem  in  planning  his  book. 
But  (though  a  Fleming  so  modern  as  Stijn 
Streuvels  has  re-written  Renard  the  Fox  and 
kept  the  old  shape)  modern  thought  is  too  direct 
to  be  placed  in  the  mouths  of  animals.  De  Coster 
knew  better  than  do  that.  He  knew  another 
X)ld  Germanic  legend  which  satirises  the  follies 
and  vices  of  the  rich  and  shows  the  weak  using 
cunning  to  baffle  those  set  above  him.  This 
was  the  German  chapbook  of  Till  Eulenspiegel^ 
which,  in  its   Flemish  dress   of  Thyl  Ulenspiegel^ 

had  become  so  well  known  that  the  arch  wag  and 

33  c 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

arrant  rogue  who  gives  the  book  its  name  had  come 

to  be  claimed  as  a  native  of  Damme,  near  Bruges. 

The  genesis  of  Eulenspiegel  was  due  to  the  same 

conditions  as  those  which  gave  rise  to  Renard  the 

Fox:  the  political  helplessness  of  the  serf  in  the 

Middle  Ages  except  in  so  far  as  he  could  outwit  his 

legal  masters,  the  grasping  lord  of  the  manor  and 

the  corrupt  priest.     But  whereas  in  the  beast-epic 

there  is  bitterness,  in  the  wag's  itinerary  there  is  a 

laughing  superiority  which  mocks  while  it  cheats. 

Renard  is  a  venomous  rogue ;  Eulenspiegel  is  an 

irresistible  jester.     It   occurred  to   De   Coster   to 

fuse  these  two  old  tales,  to  blend  the  proverbial 

characters  of  Renard  and  Eulenspiegel,  to  give  a 

valid  reason  for  the  trickery  and  make  it  work  for  a 

noble  purpose,  at  the  same  time  mellowing  it  by 

a  luxuriant  humour. 

The   legend   of    Till  Eulenspiegel,  which  first 

appeared  at  the   end  of  the   fifteenth  century,   is 

sufficiently  well  known  in  its  English  form  as   Till 

Owlglass.     De  Coster  takes  over  a  number  of  the 

episodes   bodily ;    others   he   modifies   to   suit   his 

purpose.     The  great  part  of  the   book,  however, 

is  the  heir  of  his  own  invention. 

34 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

If  Thyl  had  been  merely  a  wag  or  a  schemer, 
he  would  not  have  been  the  complete  Fleming, 
for  there  is  another  salient  trait  in  the  Flemish 
character :  that  noisy  mirth  and  joy  in  good  things, 
that  almost  frenzied  sensualism  which  runs  riot  in 
Eekhoud's  and  Demolder's  novels,  the  Rabelaisian- 
ism  of  the  old  genre  pictures,  the  rubicund  gluttony 
of  Jan  Steen.  But  this  quality  is  burlesque,  not 
heroic ;  and  Thyl  was  to  be  a  hero.  De  Coster, 
therefore,  detached  this  Flemish  feature  from  Thyl 
and  concentrated  it  in  the  person  of  Lamme 
Goedzak,  a  great  eater,  a  sensualist  who  cannot 
live  without  his  wife.  This  character  was  also 
proverbial,  and  De  Coster  took  it  from  a  series  of 
old  broadsides  coarsely  illustrating  the  story  of  a 
henpecked  man.  Thyl  was  to  represent  the  brain 
and  soul  of  Flanders,  Lamme  its  stomach. 

The  story  opens  with  idylls  of  childhood.     Thyl 

grows  up  as  the  weeds  grow,  and  plays  his  pranks 

and   lives   his   idle  life   until  his  father,  the  very 

incarnation  of  unsuspecting  innocence,  is  burnt  at 

the  stake  and  his  mother  put  to  the  rack  by  the 

fiends  of  the  Inquisition.     He  collects  his  father's 

ashes,  and  ever  after  wears  them  on  his  breast — 

35 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  My  father's  ashes  are  beating  on  my  heart "  is  now 
the  watchword — to  fortify  him  in  his  mission  of 
vengeance,  in  his  crusade  to  redeem  the  land.  He 
joins  the  Gueux,  and  roams  the  Netherlands,  with 
Lamme  Goedzak  (since  the  brain  cannot  exist 
without  the  stomach)  accompanying  him,  fomenting 
rebellion,  recruiting  soldiers,  acting  as  a  spy  and 
messenger. 

As  in  all  tales  of  adventure,  against  the  shape 
of  light  the  shape  of  darkness  is  projected,  hero 
faces  villain.  The  villain  is  Philip  II  of  Spain. 
De  Coster  had  already  pilloried  the  tyrant  in 
Smetse  Smee,  a  masterpiece  of  satire  and  merri- 
ment, one  of  his  L^gendes  Flamandes.  Thyl  and 
Philip  are  contrasted  in  their  doings  from  the 
cradle  onwards.  While  Thyl  is  growing  up  by 
the  canals  and  the  hedgerows,  amid  the  cackle  of 
the  busy  guilds,  with  Nele,  his  foster-sister  and  his 
love  to  be  (the  symbol  of  the  devotion  of  Flemish 
women),  growing  up  along  with  him,  a  curtain  is 
lifted  at  the  Escorial  and  we  see : 

"  Now  the  Emperor,  home  from  the  wars,  questioned 
wherefore  his  son  Philip  had  not  come  to  greet  him. 

"  The  Archbishop  who  was  tutor  to  the  child  answered 
36 


Belgian  Literature  till    1880 

that  he  had  refused  to  do  so,  for  he  loved  only  books 
and  seclusion. 

*'  The  Emperor  inquired  where  he  was  at  that  moment. 

"  The  tutor  answered  that  they  might  seek  him  wher- 
ever it  was  dark.     Which  they  did. 

"  And  when  they  had  passed  through  a  goodly  number 
of  rooms,  they  came  at  last  to  a  kind  of  closet,  with  an 
earth  floor,  and  lit  by  a  sky-light.  Here  they  beheld  a 
stake  driven  into  the  ground,  and  thereto  a  she-monkey 
was  bound,  most  small  and  frail,  which  had  been  sent  from 
the  Indies  to  gladden  the  heart  of  His  Royal  Highness 
by  its  youthful  antics.  At  the  foot  of  the  stake  lay  sticks, 
red,  and  still  smoking  ;  and  in  the  closet  there  was  an  evil 
smell  of  singed  hair, 

"  The  pretty  beast  had  so  cruelly  suffered  as  it  perished 
in  this  fire  that  its  delicate  frame  seemed  to  be,  not  that 
of  an  animal  that  had  lived,  but  rather  the  fragment  of  a 
wrinkled  and  twisted  root ;  and  in  its  mouth,  that  was  open 
as  though  crying  in  the  death  agony,  foam  specked  with 
blood  was  to  be  seen,  and  its  face  was  still  wet  with  tears. 

"  '  Who  has  done  this  ?  '  asked  the  Emperor. 

"  The  tutor  durst  not  reply,  and  both  stood  and  spake 
not,  being  sad  and  wrathful. 

"  Suddenly,  in  this  silence,  the  feeble  sound  of  a  cough 
was  heard  coming  from  a  corner  of  the  darkness  behind 
them.  His  Majesty,  turning  round,  perceived  the  infante 
Don  Philip,  clothed  all  in  black  and  sucking  a  lemon. 

" '  Don  Philip,'  he  said,  '  come  forth  and  salute  me.' 

"  The  infante  did  not  stir,  but  looked  at  him  with  his 
timid  eyes  in  which  there  was  no  love. 

37 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  *  Hast  thou  burnt  this  little  beast  in  this  fire  ?  *  asked 
the  Emperor. 

"  The  infante  bowed  his  head. 

"  But  the  Emperor  spake  again  : 

" '  If  thou  in  thy  cruelty  hast  done  this  thing,  have  the 
courage  to  confess  it.' 

**  The  infante  made  no  reply. 

"  His  Majesty  snatched  the  lemon  from  his  hands,  and 
cast  it  to  the  ground,  and  was  about  to  beat  his  son,  who 
was  pissing  with  terror,  but  the  Archbishop  stayed  his 
hand,  whispering  in  his  ear  : 

" '  His  Royal  Highness  will  some  day  be  a  great  burner 
of  heretics.' 

"  The  Emperor  smiled,  and  both  went  out,  leaving  the 
infante  alone  with  his  she-monkey.*' 

The  vividness  of  this  scene,  with  its  vital  detail 

of  the  lemon,    will   not   be   disputed,    and   picture 

after  picture  of  this  kind  is  flashed  across  the  pages. 

There  is  no  consecutive  narrative,  no  painstaking 

stringing  together  of  dates   and  events :  this  is  a 

cinematograph  show,  not   an  ordered  story.     The 

variety   is   astounding ;    each   episode   is   distinct  ; 

and  the  scene  shifts  from  Flanders  to  Spain,  from 

Brussels  to  Nuremberg.     The  lightness  of  touch 

is  wonderful :  the  words  seem  to  float  in  the  short 

sentences,  the  rhythm  is  without  a  jolt. 

38 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

The  book  had  been  eagerly  expected,  and  it 
was  adequately  noticed  when  it  at  last  appeared. 
But  it  was  not  a  bookseller's  success.  It  was  an 
edition  de  luxe,  enriched  by  the  drawings  of  dis- 
tinguished artists,  Felicien  Rops  among  others, 
and  its  price  was  prohibitive.  Moreover  it  was  in 
old  French,  and  though  this  archaic  diction  had 
added  a  charm  to  the  more  legendary  poetry  or  the 
more  fantastic  buffoonery  of  the  Ldgendes  Flam- 
andeSy  in  so  long  and  ambitious  a  book  as  Thyl 
Ulenspiegel  it  proved  an  obstacle.  It  was  not  till 
the  Legende  was  issued  in  a  cheap  edition  by 
Paul  Lacomblez  in  1893  that  it  began  to  make 
headway.  Camille  Lemonnier  calls  the  book 
"  the  Bible  of  the  Flemings."  This  is  Swin- 
burnian  praise.  Thyl  Ulenspiegel  is  to  this  day 
not  widely  known  in  France,  where  up  to  the 
present  there  has  been  a  prejudice  against  all 
Belgian  literature ;  in  Belgium  it  is  known  but 
unread.  To  the  Roman  Catholics,  of  course, 
it  is  a  work  of  the  devil ;  to  the  fiamingants  it 
is  poison,  for  it  is  in  French.  There  only  remain 
the   Walloons   and   the   freethinking   Flemings  to 

do   justice    to   this    great   work ;   but    it    may   be 

39 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

doubted  if  to  many  even  of  them  it  is  a  "  Bible." 
It  is,  perhaps,  too  long.  It  lacks  unity — some  of 
the  episodes,  for  instance,  which  are  taken  from 
the  Till  Eulenspiegel  chapbook,  are  quite  ex- 
traneous. Then  there  are  some  allegorical  chapters 
which  glow  with  colour  but  lend  themselves  to 
interpretation  somewhat  as  does  the  Book  of 
Revelation.  Only  in  one  country  has  this  prose 
epic  been  justly  appreciated  as  a  book  to  be 
read :  the  Germans,  with  their  well-known  logic, 
claim  it  as  a  German  work,  as  a  book  which 
glorifies  the  sterling  Germanic  character  (in  the 
spirit  of  Pan-Germanism)  and  shows  the  wicked- 
ness and  inferiority  of  the  Latin  races. 

The  book,  then,  did  not  definitely  improve  De 
Coster's  financial  position,  and  in  1870  he  was  glad 
to  accept  the  professorship  of  history  and  French 
literature  at  the  Military  School  in  Brussels.  His 
salary  was  ample ;  but  it  was  so  much  booty  for 
his  creditors.  Broken  by  misfortune  and  the  work 
of  a  galley-slave,  he  died  in  1879,  at  Ixelles,  a 
suburb  of  Brussels,  where  in  191 1  a  monument 
was   raised   to   him.      At    this    ceremony    Camille 

Lemonnier   delivered    the    oration   which   is  now 

40 


Belgian  Literature  till   1880 

the  preface  to  the  third  edition  of  Thy  I  (191 2). 
Lemonnier's  praise  was  burning  with  enthusiasm. 
"  Love  breathed,"  he  said,  "and  the  wind  of  battle 
arose,  and  carried  everything  away  in  the  holy 
intoxication  of  creating  a  new  native  land !  .  .  .  Here 
a  people  died,  and  freed  themselves ;  freed  a  soul 
that  was  tortured  in  vain  by  tyrants,  a  soul  that, 
like  fire,  flames  the  higher  the  more  it  is  repressed. 
Everywhere  the  stake,  the  wheel.  .  .  .  And  yet  the 
good  song,  the  song  of  love  and  courage,  ends 
never.  It  bursts  forth  as  life  does,  like  the  soul  of 
the  bravest  of  nations.  From  the  vaults  of  death 
itself  it  ascends  and  defies  death.  ...  It  is  the 
great  lesson,  never  to  despair.  .  .  ." 


41 


CHAPTER   II 

THE    STANDARD    OF    REVOLT 

It  has  been  said  that  from  1830  to  1880  Belgium 

"enjoyed    liberty,    tranquillity,    and  .   .   .  sleep." 

There  is  point  in  the  epigram,  so  far  as  concerns 

the  intellectual  activity  of  the  general  public.     But 

the  statement  that  Belgium   before   1880  was  "a 

literary  desert,"  is  not  strictly  correct.     It  would 

be   correct   to   say  that  in  the  years   in   question 

Belgian  literature  was  unknown  outside  of  Belgium  ; 

it  would  be  correct  to  say  that  what  was  good  in 

Belgian  literature  was  little  read  in  Belgium  itself 

before   1880.      Before   that   year    Belgian   literary 

productivity    was    certainly    meagre.       Compared 

with  any  of  the  three  Scandinavian  countries,  for 

instance,   Belgian  literature  before    1880  had  little 

claim  to  the  attention  of  the  world ;  and  from  the 

international  point  of  view  it  might  be  said  that 

of  all  the  writers  who  were  at  their  best  between 

i860  and  1880  only  De  Coster  and  Guido  Gezelle 

42 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

survive.  It  might  of  course  be  urged  that  these 
two  writers  were  during  their  lifetime  kept  in  the 
shade  by  such  occasional  and  official  versifiers  as 
Louis  Hymans,  in  whose  epithalamium  to  the 
Princess  Stephanie  the  following  stanza  occurs: 

"  Vous  allez  nous  quitter,  princesse, 
Pour  devenir  archiduchesse 
Et  sur  le  trone  des  Habsbourg 
Faire  asseoir  le  sang  des  Cobourg." 

Charles  Potvin  is  another  favourite  of  those  days ; 
he  is  now  hardly  known  except  by  what  he  did 
for  De  Coster.  In  the  shade,  however,  fighting 
their  way  as  literary  hacks,  or  writing  masterpieces 
(like  Guido  Gezelle)  in  utter  renunciation,  men  of 
real  genius  were  preparing  the  way  for  the  new 
generation.  Camille  Lemonnier,  the  great  path- 
finder, had  plunged  into  journalism  in  1863;  and 
by  1875  the  term  "  Jeune-Belgique,"  which  was  to 
be  the  watchword  of  the  new  movement,  had  ap- 
peared in  V Artiste^  a  review  (edited  by  Theodore 
Hannon)  which  called  for  a  programme  of  "  natural- 
ism and  modernity." 

It  was  at  the  University  of  Louvain  that  the 

new  voices  were  first  heard.     Here  in  1880  and 

43 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

the  following  years  a  group  of  students  were 
gathered  together  who  were  nearly  all  of  them  to 
become  famous.  One  of  them  was  fimile  Verhaeren, 
already  conspicuous  by  his  grande  tignasse  blonde 
(shock  of  fair  hair)  and  his  long  drooping  mous- 
tache. Another,  Iwan  Gilkin,  was  so  deeply 
moved  when  he  first  heard  Verhaeren  recite  at  the 
Literary  Society  of  the  University  that  he  hurried 
off  to  his  lodgings  and  there  and  then  indited  a 
sonnet  to  the  elder  student.  This  he  promptly 
dropped  into  Verhaeren's  letter-box,  and  was  de- 
lighted the  following  morning  to  receive  a  return 
sonnet,  equally  complimentary.  "In  fourteen  tor- 
tured lines,"  Gilkin  relates,  "  I  had  said :  *  You 
are  a  poet  1 '  and  Verhaeren  responded  in  the 
same  terms :  '  You  are  another.'  We  were  great 
friends  after  that." 

The  greatest  light  among  the  students,  as  they 
then  considered,  was  Emile  van  Arenbergh,  "an 
excellent  young  man,  with  a  grave,  slow  voice, 
solemn  gestures,  and  a  soul  candid  and  serene." 
Magnificent  as  his  verse  was  his  superb  fur  coat 
with  a  wide  Astrakhan  collar,  clad  in  which  he  once 

appeared  at  the  Police  Court  in  the  heats  of  July, 

44 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

to  answer  for  an  escapade.  The  youngest  of  the 
group  was  Albert  Giraud  :  he  was  about  eighteen 
at  the  time.  He  was  timid  and  nonchalant ;  but 
he  spoke  magnificently  when  he  caught  fire  at  the 
debates  of  the  Literary  Society — then,  "the  words 
leapt  from  his  mouth  like  roaring  lions." 

Very  intimate  with  the  French-writing  students 
was  Albrecht  Rodenbach.  Born  in  1856  at 
Roulers,  he  had  been  the  pupil  of  Hugo  Verriest 
at  the  Little  Seminary  in  that  town,  which 
figures  largely  in  the  history  of  the  Flemish 
revival.  Before  his  arrival  in  Louvain,  he  had 
corresponded  with  another  young  Flemish-writing 
poet  of  great  ambition,  Pol  de  Mont,  a  native 
of  Brabant  (born  near  Ternath,  1857).  Both 
looked  far  ahead  to  the  same  ideals  of  a  great 
national  literature  in  Flemish,  and  both  wished 
to  make  a  beginning  of  the  revival  by  creat- 
ing a  strong  Students'  Union.  In  this  they  suc- 
ceeded :  the  first  meeting  of  Flemish  students  was 
held  at  Ghent  in  1877,  and  by  the  time  these 
two  heralds  of  a  revolution  which  was  to  run  par- 
allel with  that  of  the  French-writing  students,  and 

to   have   far-reaching   political   consequences,    had 

45 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

become  fellow-students  in  Louvain,  their  first  books 
had  been  launched.  Albrecht  Rodenbach's  Eerste 
Gedichten  (First  Poems)  had  appeared  at  Roulers 
in  1878;  Pol  de  Mont's  first  volume  of  verse, 
KlimopkranksenSy  had  been  published  in  1876. 
Unfortunately,  Albrecht  Rodenbach  died  of  con- 
sumption in  1880;  his  was  the  tragic  fate,  but 
also  the  immortality  of  regret,  of  Keats.  He 
would  never  have  been  a  great  poet ;  he  had  no 
depth.  But  he  had  a  boundless  enthusiasm  for 
the  Flemish  cause,  and  it  is  rather  as  the  prophet 
of  the  Flemish  revival,  who  might  have  led  the 
chosen  into  the  Promised  Land,  than  as  a  poet 
that  his  memory  is  kept  green.  There  is  (or  was, 
before  the  war)  a  statue  to  him  in  Roulers.  Strange 
to  say,  there  is  a  particularly  virile  note  in  the 
lyrics  of  this  doomed  consumptive,  as  in  his  am- 
bitious verse  play  Gudrun^  which  appeared  two 
years  after  his  death.  Albrecht  Rodenbach's  death 
left  Pol  de  Mont  the  undisputed  leader  of  the 
Flemish  revival — a  revival  which  he  was  to  lead 
more  and  more  in  the  direction  of  Germany.  An- 
other of  the  Flemish  students  who  was  to  become 

a  pillar   of  the  movement   was   Jan   Blockx,  the 

46 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

future  director  of  the  Conservatoire  at  Antwerp, 
and  after  Peter  Benoit  the  greatest  of  Flemish 
musicians.      He  died  in  191 2. 

These  students,  French  and  Flemish,  lived  the 
true  Bohemian  life.  Pol  de  Mont  and  Albrecht 
Rodenbach,  with  their  flowing  locks  and  the  prac- 
tised poetic  expression  of  their  features,  were  a 
public  spectacle  when  they  took  their  afternoon 
constitutional  through  the  town.  As  to  the  French- 
writing  students,  wc  know  by  Gilkin's  confessions 
that  they  were  addicted  to  "  beer,  coffee,  punch, 
and  hot  wine."  They  studied  in  the  summer 
holidays  exclusively  (most  of  them  law,  which  they 
seem  to  have  considered  a  great  bore) ;  and  they 
passed  their  examinations  (or  failed  in  them)  in 
October.  Once  they  got  into  difficulties  with  the 
police  by  unearthing  a  signpost  and  carrying  it 
through  the  streets  of  Louvain  in  the  dead  of  night 
between  a  double  row  of  lugubrious  candles,  while 
they  sang  De  profundis  and  Dies  irce.  This  music 
may  have  been  well  worth  listening  to,  for  one  of 
the  singers  was  Ernest  van  Dyck,  who  was  to 
become    a    famous   Wagner    tenor    at    Bayreuth. 

Verhaeren  lodged  in  the  third  story  in  the  house 

47 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

of  a  cutler  named  J  oris,  and  if  a  visitor  called  he 
would  leap  on  to  the  landing  and  shout  downstairs 
at  the  top  of  his  voice  :  **  Madame  J  oris !  Madame 
J  oris !  A  cup  of  tea,  please  ! "  Sometimes  the 
visitors  followed  each  other  fast,  but  Verhaeren 
called  for  a  cup  of  tea  for  each  new-comer.  The 
friends  were  careful  not  to  suggest  any  alteration  of 
this  "  immutable  rite,  which  gave  his  lodgings  some- 
thing sacred."  They  lent  books  to  one  another, 
but  Verhaeren  could  only  be  trusted  with  books  of 
no  value,  on  account  of  his  "savage  enthusiasms." 
When  he  was  struck  by  a  particularly  fine  passage 
he  had  a  habit  of  screaming,  "  Nom  de  Dieu !  que 
c'est  beau!"  (Good  God!  how  fine  it  is!),  and  the 
volume  would  then  bring  the  plaster  down  from  the 
ceiling.  This  violent  handling  of  books  scandalised 
another  member  of  the  group,  who  was  already 
possessed  with  a  mania  for  collecting  rare  editions : 
this  was  Edmond  Deman,  who  in  the  course  of  time 
became  a  celebrated  bibliophile  and  publisher  of 
beautiful  books,  including  the  first  lovely  editions  of 
Verhaeren's  books.  "  He  is  a  Red  Skin !  "  Deman 
used  to  say  of  Verhaeren  in  those  days. 

On  the  1 8th  of  October  1879,  i"  ^^^  streets  of 
48 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

Louvain  the  newsboys  were  crying  a  new  students' 
magazine.  This  was  La  Semaine  des  J^tudiants^ 
and  at  first  it  sold  like  hot  cakes.  Its  first  verses, 
Rimes  d avant-poste,  were  signed  "  Rodolphe." 
This  was  the  pen-name  of  Verhaeren,  whose  con- 
tributions show  that  at  that  time  he  was  one  of  the 
least  revolutionary  of  the  group ;  he  was  inclined 
to  imitate  Frangois  Copp^e,  and  the  ideal  he  pro- 
claimed was :  to  live  peaceably  in  his  village,  near 
a  river  with  a  singing  tide,  to  have  wife  and 
children.  But  one  day  he  read  Maupassant's  Vers^ 
and  he  wrote  no  more  domestic  idylls — from  that 
moment  he  was  a  realist. 

If  Maupassant's  volume  of  verse  was  the  coup  de 
foudre  for  Verhaeren,  Baudelaire's  Fleurs  de  Mai 
was  the  same  thing  for  Iwan  Gilkin.  Albert  Giraud 
made  him  read  it  at  the  critical  moment ;  and  through 
these  two  poets  it  was  destined  to  turn  a  large  part 
of  the  poetry  of  young  Belgium  into  gloomy  channels. 
It  was  Gilkin  who,  in  the  thirteenth  number  of 
La  Semaine  des  ^tudiants^  signed  a  sensational 
manifesto.  After  pointing  out  that  hitherto  Belgian 
literature  had  looked  to  Paris  for  approval,  and  that 

no  Belgian  man  of  letters  had  been  acknowledged 

49  ^ 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

at  home  until  he  had  been  recognised  in  the  French 
capital,  he  urges  that  the  best  way  to  create  new 
things  is  to  aim  at  local  colour.  Little  matters  as 
to  the  language,  he  says,  whether  it  be  lyrical  or 
correct,  Gothic,  or  French  of  Paris :  all  that  is 
needed  is  that  it  should  smack  of  the  soil.  Let  it 
be  wild  and  dishevelled ;  let  it  murder  syntax  and 
writhe  in  orgies  of  solecisms  ;  what  does  it  matter  if 
it  leaps  at  the  throat  of  reality  ?  Flanders  and  the 
Walloon  provinces  are  there,  offering  their  flanks 
swollen  with  delightful  and  curious  customs.  And 
when  the  first  fire  is  calmed,  there  are  golden  legends 
to  gather.  There  must  be  a  Flemish  school  of 
poetry  just  as  there  was  a  Flemish  school  of  paint- 
ing ;  there  must  be  poets  in  the  manner  of  Teniers, 
Ruysdael,  Brauwer,  Van  Ostade  to  begin  with  ;  and 
they  must  lead  the  way  to  a  Rembrandt  and  a 
Rubens  of  verse. 

We  shall  see  that  the  programme  was  realised 
to  the  full.  How  startling  it  seemed  at  the  time, 
however,  is  evident  from  the  fact  that  Verhaeren, 
who  was  destined  more  than  any  one  else  to  carry 
it  out,  sent  in  an  article  of  timid  protest  against  "  the 

crimson  excesses  of  this  new  doctrine  that  sought 

50 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

to  break  through  the  dykes."  But  the  aims  of  the 
new  movement — "  un  petit  quatre-vingt-neuf  in- 
tellectuel,"  someone  called  it — were  settled  when 
another  of  the  students,  Ernst  Verlant,  who  was 
later  a  critic  of  distinction  and  rose  to  be  Directeur- 
G^n^ral  des  Beaux  Arts,  read  a  paper  in  which  he 
tried  to  establish  that  the  aim  of  art  is  the  realisa- 
tion of  a  moral  and  religious  ideal.  His  arguments 
were  refuted,  and  the  formula  was  proclaimed  which 
was  to  remain  the  first  commandment  in  the  pro- 
gramme of  young  Belgium  :  r  Art  pour  I'Art  (Art 
for  Art's  sake).  The  adoption  of  this  doctrine  was 
too  much  for  the  University.  The  conservative 
students  began  to  look  upon  the  plotters  as  the 
agents  of  Satan.  Wordy  battles  raged.  Peace 
was  restored  for  a  moment,  however,  when  a  young 
Belgian  author,  Albrecht  Rodenbach  s  elder  brother 
and  an  old  schoolfellow  of  Verhaeren's,  paid  a  visit 
to  the  University  to  recite  his  poems.  This  was 
Georges  Rodenbach,  who  had  already  had  some  of 
his  verse  published  in  Paris. 

La  Semaine  des  ^tudiants  had  not  attained  a 
great  age  when,  on  their  return  from  the  summer 

vacation,  the  iconoclasts  heard  the  newsboys  crying  : 

51 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

**  Le  Type  I  Buy  Le  Type  !  "  What  was  their  horror 
on  finding  that  this  new  magazine  was  an  exact 
copy  of  their  own,  printed  by  their  own  printer,  and 
displaying  the  advertisements  they  themselves  had 
captured !  They  found  another  printer,  and  attacked 
the  new-comer,  especially  its  editor,  a  certain  Olivier, 
with  might  and  main.  But  Le  Type  asked  for  no- 
thing better  than  war  to  the  knife.  The  combat 
deepened ;  other  magazines  were  launched  to  join 
in  the  fray;  and  in  the  beginning  of  1881  the 
University  authorities  were  forced  to  suppress 
them  all. 

The  abominable  Olivier  was  a  mystery.  At 
last  his  true  name  was  discovered.  **  He  was 
quite  a  young  man,  almost  a  boy,  handsome 
as  a  dream,  charming,  brilliant,  exquisite  in  his 
waggishness  and  grace :  his  name  was  Maurice 
Warlomont." 

A  few  months  later  a  new  magazine  appeared, 
this  time  at  Brussels.  Maurice  Warlomont,  hence- 
forth to  be  known  by  his  pen-name  of  Max  Waller, 
had  acquired  an  interest  in  La  Jeune  Revue,  a 
magazine  of  the  students  of  Brussels,  and  had  re- 
christened  it  La  Jeune  Belgique.     He  had  at  once 

52 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

recruited  Georges  Rodenbach,  Verhaeren,  Giraud, 
Gilkin,  Georges  Eekhoud,  Franz  Mahutte,  Henri 
Maubel ;  and  with  these  contributors,  who  entered 
literature,  says  Vance  Thompson,  like  a  band  of 
Sioux,  the  review  soon  became  the  chief  organ  of 
the  new  literary  life. 

But  the  doctrine  of  Art  for  Art's  sake  which 
was  preached  \>y  La  Jeune  Belgique  did  not  pass 
without  challenge.  Edmond  Picard,  already  a 
lawyer  of  great  reputation,  opposed  the  maxim  by 
his  ideas  of  a  "social"  or  "revolutionary"  art,  of 
a  "  useful  art "  (fart  utile).  The  mission  of  art,  he 
claimed,  was  to  destroy  the  abuses  of  a  decadent 
society,  to  clear  the  way  for  the  flood-tide  which 
was  to  submerge  all  that  was  effete.  This  was 
the  programme  of  Picard's  organ  L'Art  Moderne. 
Between  La  Jeune  Belgique  and  L'Art  Moderne 
there  was  war  open  and  declared.  In  1884  Picard's 
organ  began  to  attack  the  writers  oi  La  Jeune 
Belgique  as  "  Parnassians."  This  was  equivalent 
to  charging  them  with  being  mock-Parisians. 
Against  this  alleged  tendency  L Art  Moderne  de- 
creed that  art  should  be  national,  that  a  Belgian 

writer  should  think  as  a   Belgian  and  write  as  a 

53 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Belgian.     At  least  one  duel  was  fought,  and  the  two 
parties  proved  irreconcilable. 

The  writers  of  La  Jeune  Belgique  had  no  objec- 
tion to  being  called  Parnassians :  they  considered 
that  they,  like  the  French  Parnassians  of  1866, 
were  fighting  "a  literary  amorphism  produced  by 
the  exaggeration  of  moral,  philanthropic,  social,  and 
political  preoccupations."  They  definitely  affirmed 
the  relationship  by  the  publication  in  1887  of  an 
anthology  of  their  verse  :  Le  Parnasse  de  la  Jeune 
Belgique.  This  book,  published  at  Paris  by  L^on 
Vanier,  is  one  of  the  landmarks  of  modern  Belgian 
literature.  It  is  more  than  an  anthology,  it  is,  and 
was  intended  to  be,  a  proof  paramount  of  the  actual 
existence  of  a  new  school  of  poetry  in  Belgium. 
It  is  to  be  noted  that  it  includes  poems  by  writers 
who  were  afterwards  avowed  symbolists — Andr6 
Fontainas,  Charles  van  Lerberghe,  Gr^goire  Le 
Roy,  and  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  The  directors  of 
La  Jeune  Belgique,  however,  were  not  favourably 
disposed  to  the  symbolists.  Max  Waller,  the  first 
editor,  refused  to  print  vers  libres  and  looked  on 
Verhaeren  as  a  man  lost  and  strayed.     Waller  died 

in  1889,  and  was  succeeded  by  Henri  Maubel,  who 

54 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

adhered  to  the  policy  established  by  the  first  editor. 
The  policy  of  excluding  the  symbolists,  however, 
was  not  approved  of  by  all  the  directors,  who  were 
now  Georges  Eekhoud,  Albert  Giraud,  Francis 
Nautet,  Henri  Maubel,  and  Iwan  Gilkin.  There 
were  disputes  ;  and  Valere  Gille,  the  youngest  poet 
who  had  contributed  to  Le  Parnasse^  was  appointed 
editor.  He  was  only  twenty-three  at  the  time. 
Under  his  auspices  the  review  was  thrown  open  to 
all  and  sundry,  and  vers  libres  by  the  French  and 
Belgian  symbolists  were  accepted.  In  1891  Gille 
resigned,  and  was  succeeded  by  Gilkin,  who  re- 
versed Gille's  policy,  and  in  1893  issued  a  new 
manifesto  calling  upon  his  countrymen  to  practise 
le  culte  de  la  forme.  Gilkin,  and  those  who  sup- 
ported him,  were  of  opinion  that  the  proximity  of 
Flemish  made  it  most  difficult  for  Belgians  to  keep 
their  French  pure,  and  that  their  only  salvation  lay 
in  the  cultivation  of  a  French  free  from  all  provincial 
disfiguration.  Gilkin,  it  is  evident,  had  reached 
quite  a  different  standpoint  from  that  which  had 
inspired  his  manifesto  in  La  Semaine  des  ^tudi- 
ants.      He   and   his   party   had   now  come  to  the 

conclusion  that,  as  far  as  literature  was  concerned, 

55 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

they  were  Frenchmen,  not  Belgians.  They  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  anything  that  suggested 
local  conditions.  They  were  determined  to  look 
upon  themselves  as  French  writers  inhabiting 
Brussels,  Ghent,  or  Li^ge,  instead  of  Paris,  Lyons, 
or  Marseilles.  The  foreign  elements  which,  owing  to 
the  number  of  symbolist  poets  of  foreign  extraction, 
were  forcing  their  way  into  French  literature,  they 
regarded  as  harmful,  and  they  fought  against  them 
with  more  determination  than  even  those  French 
critics  of  Paris  who  were  the  defenders  of  the 
classical  tradition.  The  result  was  a  splitting  of 
Belgian  poetry  into  two  schools :  Gilkin,  Giraud, 
Gille,  S^verin,  and  others  were  "  Parnassians  "  ; 
Verhaeren,  Maeterlinck,  van  Lerberghe,  Fontainas, 
Elskamp,  and  others  were  vers  libristes  and  sym- 
bolists. The  Parnassians  rallied  round  La  Jeune 
Belgique,  while  the  vers  libristes  and  symbolists 
wrote  for  L' Art  Moderne  and  several  dissident 
reviews,  the  most  important  of  which  was  Albert 
Mockel's  La  Wallonie. 

Four   of  the   best  poets,    Verhaeren,    Georges 
Rodenbach,     Georges     Eekhoud,     and      Georges 

Khnopff,  had  refused  to  contribute  to  Le  Parnasse, 

56 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

so  that  the  anthology  does  not  represent  the  whole 
poetic  movement,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  most 
interesting  book,  full  of  virility  and  wickedness,  in 
the  midst  of  which  the  more  delicate  notes  of 
Maeterlinck,  Charles  van  Lerberghe,  and  Fernard 
S^verin  seem  out  of  place.  The  prevailing  mood 
is  a  Baudelairian  pessimism :  hardly  one  of  the 
poets  but  shows  who  has  stood  godfather  to  his 
muse. 

Some  of  the  eighteen  contributors  are  now,  it 
is  true,  poets  of  yesteryear. 

Theodore  Hannon  is  one  of  those  minor  poets 
who  are  consistently  ignored  or  curtly  treated 
by  the  decent  historians  of  literature,  but  who 
have  always  an  intelligent  public  among  the  col- 
lectors of  curios.  Take  away  his  obscenity  and 
little  remains ;  but  his  obscenity  is  not  vicious,  it 
is  merely  a  graceful  play  with  words ;  Hannon  is 
not  perverse,  he  is  naughty.  His  licentious  images 
conjure  up  exotic  pictures :  as  that  of  lemons 
bursting  through  thin  paper,  which  make  him 
think  of  the  pale  gold  breasts  of  Japanese  girls. 

Max   Waller's  Flute  a  Siebel  is  poor  stuff  by 

the  side  of  Theodore  Hannon's  Rimes  de  Joie.    The 

57 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

two  books  are  similar  in  intention  ;  but  whereas 
Hannon's  obscenity  is  that  of  an  artist,  Waller's 
is  the  sneering  cynicism  of  a  man  about  town. 

Emile  van  Arenbergh  is  to  be  taken  more 
seriously,  though  of  him,  too,  it  cannot  be  claimed 
that  he  is  any  longer  read  or  considered  at  the 
value  he  once  seemed  to  have.  He  might  be 
called  a  Philistine  Baudelaire :  he  has  the  pessi- 
mism, but  only  as  much  of  the  perversity  of 
Baudelaire  as  a  judge — he  was  a  juge  de  paix — 
can  decently  make  a  show  of.  His  sonnets  have 
an  imposing  frontage.  Seen  from  afar,  they  have 
the  Heredian  build ;  but  on  closer  inspection  the 
stones  are  seen  to  have  been  dug  out  from  here 
and  there,  not  hewn  from  one  block  ;  and  they 
are  loose.  Fragments  are  often  richly  coloured, 
but  with  the  learned  tints  of  Gautier,  not  with  the 
mellow  tones  of  the  native  Flemish  colouring. 

Valere  Gille  has  suffered  still  more  from  time. 

He  is  a  kind   of  miniature   Edmund    Gosse ;    he 

is  rather  a  librarian  than  a  poet.      His  verse  has 

distinction,  but  it  is  a  distinction  of  form ;  and  the 

fact   that   his   collection    La    Cithare   (1897)   was 

crowned   by   the    French   Academy   is    a   terrible 

58 


The  Standard  of  Revolt 

incrimination  of  the  French  Academy.  However, 
some  of  his  sonnets,  derivative  as  they  are,  are 
well-knit,  and  spread  the  peacock's  tail  with  suffi- 
cient pomp. 

Who  that  reads  the  charming  Walloon  tales  of 
George  Garnir,  remembers  that  he  was  one  of 
the  poets  of  the  Parnasse?  How  many  Dutch 
people  are  aware  that  their  favourite  poetess 
H^l^ne  Swarth  began  with  French  poetry  in  a 
Belgian  anthology  ?  Who  in  these  days  knows  the 
name  of  L^on  Montenaeken  ?  Who,  in  England 
and  all  over  the  world,  does  not  know  his  little 
lyric,  which  is  to  be  found  in  the  Parnasse? 

"  La  vie  est  vaine  : 
Un  peu  d'amour, 
Un  peu  de  haine  ... 
Et  puis — bonjour  ! 

"  La  vie  est  breve  : 
Un  peu  d'espoir, 
Un  peu  de  rfive  .  .   . 
Et  puis — bonsoir  !  " 

The  poets  of  yesteryear  do  not  wholly  die.  .  .  . 


59 


CHAPTER   III 
CAMILLE   LEMONNIER 

Every  five  years  the  Belgian  state  awards  a  prize 
for  the  best  book  which  has  appeared  during  the 
five  years  preceding.  In  1883  the  jury  decided 
that  during  the  previous  half  decade  no  work  of 
sufficient  merit  had  appeared  to  justify  their  award- 
ing the  prize.  This  decision  was  considered  by 
the  young  writers  of  Belgium,  who  were  by  this 
time  both  numerous  and  conscious  of  their  own 
importance,  to  be  a  deliberate  insult  to  Camille 
Lemonnier,  for  in  the  period  in  question  he  had 
published  four  novels,  two  of  which  at  all  events, 
Un  Male  and  Le  Mort,  could  not  possibly  by  good 
critics  be  rated  as  anything  less  than  masterpieces. 
It  was  felt  that  the  time  was  come  to  show  Lemon- 
nier that  he  had  a  following  among  his  more  in 
telligent  countrymen,  and  that  he  was  no  longer 
a   voice  crying   in  the  wilderness.     On   the    27th 

of   May    1883    a   public   banquet    was    offered    to 

60 


Camille  Lemonnier 

him  at  Brussels ;  eloquent  speeches  were  made ; 
the  newspapers  thrashed  out  the  question  of  the 
national  literature ;  in  short,  a  sensation  was 
created.  This  historic  banquet,  known  henceforth 
as  le  banquet  du  Mdle^  marks  another  stage  of 
progress  in  modern  Belgian  literature  ;  for  the  first 
time  the  literary  men  of  the  country  had  acted  as 
a  body  and  publicly  challenged  the  Philistines,  who 
for  so  long  had  kept  literature  and  intellectual  life 
in  a  position  of  dependence  on  the  crassest  con- 
ception of  public  morality.  Henceforth  authors 
claimed  the  liberty  of  writing  as  they  thought  fit, 
without  consideration  of  the  tender  susceptibilities 
of  those  who  would  fain  have  gagged  all  free 
utterance  and  only  allowed  literary  expression  in 
a  pruned  and  official  language.  As  to  Camille 
Lemonnier,  he  went  on  writing  as  he  had  always 
done,  luxuriantly  and  without  restraint ;  but  when 
the  time  came  again  for  the  jury  to  hold  their 
momentous  deliberations,  they  could  no  longer 
afford  to  ignore  the  man  who  had  come  to  be 
known  to  the  Belgians  as  their  "field-marshal  of 
letters,"  and  in  1888  Lemonnier  was  awarded  the 

quinquennial   prize,    not,    it    is   true,    for   his   fine 

61 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

novels  L' HysUrique  or  Happe- Chair,  but  for 
La  Belgique  (1888),  his  monumental  itinerary  of 
Belgium.  And  even  this  was  not  allowed  to  be 
given  as  a  prize  in  schools — it  was  "too  lyrical," 
the  official  verdict  ran. 

In  all  Belgian  literature  there  is  no  more  out- 
standing figure  than  Camille  Lemonnier.  He  is 
not  merely  the  greatest  Belgian  novelist,  he  is  the 
greatest  Belgian  prose- writer ;  and  even  if  he  had 
been  a  lesser  artist,  if  he  had  lost  ground  to  the 
sustained  fierceness  of  Georges  Eekhoud,  or  been 
out-classed  by  the  subtle  imagination  and  the  ex- 
quisite refinement  of  Eugene  Demolder,  he  would 
still  have  loomed  large  as  a  great  fighter  for  the 
recognition  of  Belgian  literature,  as  the  general, 
in  short,  who  set  the  young  men  of  letters  on  their 
feet  and  led  them  to  victory.  "  He  alone  perhaps," 
says  Edmond  Picard,  "symbolises  the  Belgian 
literary  activity  in  the  French  language  in  its 
entirety.  He  was  the  centre  of  it,  the  trunk,  the 
backbone :  nearly  everything  has  issued  forth  from 
him,  or  directly  or  indirectly  leaned  on  him." 

Camille   Lemonnier,   the  son  of  a  lawyer  who 

hailed   from    Louvain,    was   born   at    Ixelles   near 

62 


Camille  Lemonnier 

Brussels  in  1844.  The  name  is  Walloon,  but  both 
father  and  mother  were  Flemish.  A  glance  at  his 
genealogy,  however,  shows  that  he  is  of  mixed 
extraction :  his  great-grandmother  on  his  father's 
side  was  an  Italian.  As  a  schoolboy  at  the 
Ath^nee  of  Brussels,  he  showed  little  aptitude 
for  study ;  but  he  learned  Baudelaire's  poems  by 
heart.  Soon  afterwards  he  heard  Baudelaire, 
then  in  exile  in  Brussels,  lecture  on  Theophile 
Gautier :  it  was  his  first  glimpse  of  that  tangible 
distress  of  literature  which  he  was  to  experience 
to  the  full.  His  first  newspaper  article  brought 
him  the  friendship  of  another  of  the  victims 
of  literature — Charles  De  Coster,  whose  great 
champion  he  was  to  be.  He  entered  the  Univer- 
sity of  Brussels  as  a  student  of  jurisprudence ;  but 
his  incapacity  in  this  sphere  was  so  evident  that 
his  father  removed  him  and  procured  him  a  post 
as  a  clerk  in  the  provincial  government  of  Brussels. 
From  this  still  more  uncongenial  employment  he 
ran  away  when  he  was  twenty-two,  determined  to 
live  by  his  pen.  He  began  by  writing  art  criticism 
for  the  newspapers ;  this  he  collected  in  his  first 

book  Salon  de  Bruxelles,   which  he  was   enabled 

63 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

by  the  generous  assistance  of  a  wealthy  friend  to 
publish  in  1863.  This  book  of  art  criticism  was 
to  be  followed  by  several  others,  chief  among  them 
being  Histoire  des  Beaux- Arts  en  Belgique  (1887) 
2S\A  Les  Peintres  de  la  Vie  (1888). 

His  father  died  when  he  was  twenty-five. 
With  the  money  he  inherited  Lemonnier  rented  a 
chateau  on  the  hills  near  Namur,  and  here  for  some 
time  he  lived  the  life  which  suited  his  robust  consti- 
tution and  unbridled  instincts,  the  life  which  he  has 
described  in  a  number  of  his  novels,  in  Un  Male 
above  all,  but  also  in  Amants  Joyeux  and  in  the 
novels  of  forest  life  which  preach  a  return  to  the 
primitive  conditions  of  nature.  **  Born  by  mistake 
between  the  walls  of  a  great  city,"  says  Georges 
Rency,  "  Lemonnier  had  at  last  found  his  true 
homeland.  It  was  a  kind  of  initiation  for  him.  In 
the  little  domain  which  extended  round  his  rustic 
dwelling  were  gathered  together  the  delights  of  a 
noble  river  and  the  sturdy,  stinging  pleasures  of 
the  forest.  He  was  a  hunter,  an  angler,  and  a 
poacher.  He  lived  through  all  the  excitement  of 
his  Male  before  he  dreamt  of  writing  it  down.     He 

intoxicated  himself  with   nature,  drank   it,  ate  his 

64 


1 


Camille  Lemonnier 

fill  of  it.  And  when  his  purse  was  empty  and  he 
was  forced  to  return  to  a  normal  existence,  he  tore 
himself  away  from  this  wild  and  splendid  country 
with  a  despair  and  bitterness  that  never  left  him." 

During  this  period  of  untrammelled  life  in  the 
open  Lemonnier  wrote  Nos  Flamands  (1869),  a 
series  of  aggressive  essays  full  of  enthusiasm  for 
the  great  men  of  his  race,  a  fiery  appeal  for  a 
national  regeneration  which  for  the  moment  fell  on 
deaf  ears,  but  had  its  effect  when  the  time  was  ripe 
ten  years  later.  The  book  is  dedicated  to  "the 
young  men  of  our  schools  and  workshops,"  and  it 
bears  the  motto:  "  Nous-memes  ou  p^rir!"  (Let 
us  be  ourselves,  or  perish !)  a  battle-cry  which  was 
to  be  taken  up  with  resounding  vigour  when  the 
fight  for  a  national  literature  began  in  earnest. 
The  next  formative  force  in  Lemonnier's  life  was 
the  Franco-German  War,  which  inspired  him  with 
the  pamphlet  Paris-Berlin,  an  eloquent  pleading 
of  the  cause  of  France.  It  had  an  enormous 
success,  and  was  attributed  to  Victor  Hugo,  "who 
did  not  protest."  ^  Lemonnier  expressed  his  horror 
of  war  in  a  book  of  more  permanent  import,  Les 

^  A.  Meckel,  Mercure  de  France^  April  1897. 

65  E 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

Charniers  (1871),  which  has  been  described  as 
forming,  with  Baroness  von  Suttner's  Down  with 
your  Arms  and  Zola's  La  Debacle,  "  a  triptych  of 
horror."  "There  is  only  one  thing  I  execrate," 
says  Lemonnier  in  this  book,  "and  that  is  war. 
This  hatred  in  me  is  as  indestructible  as  my 
soul." 

Les  Charniers,  Lemonnier's  first  masterpiece, 
may  be  said  to  open  his  first  creative  period. 
L6on  Bazalgette,  in  his  authoritative  monograph,^ 
divides  Lemonnier's  work  into  three  distinct  periods. 
"  The  first,  in  which  there  triumphs  a  rich  and 
opulent  art,  uncompromising  and  swollen  with  sap, 
plastic  above  all,  filled  his  youth  from  twenty 
to  forty.  The  second,  dominated  by  the  quest 
of  originality  and  an  inquiring  and  experimental 
psychology,  is  the  result  of  his  maturity,  from  his 
fortieth  to  his  fiftieth  year.  At  fifty  he  returns  to 
the  instinct  of  his  youth,  but  to  an  instinct  which, 
having  traversed  all  the  experiences  of  a  lifetime, 
now  appears  enriched,  fortified,  more  supple  and 
wider  of  range,  controlled  by  an  unerring  will — a 

*  Camille  Lemonnier  (one  of  the   series  Les   Cdlibtith  d'Au- 
jourd'kut),  Paris,  Sansot,  1904, 

66 


Camille  Lemonnier 

magnificent  period  of  plenitude  and  of  triumphant 
fecundity,  an  age  of  re-birth  ripening  some  of  the 
noblest  fruits  of  his  art." 

The  fine  flower  of  the  first  period  is  Un 
Mdle,  which  appeared  in  1881,  and  at  once 
placed  Lemonnier  in  the  first  rank  of  contempor- 
ary novelists.  It  is  the  novel  by  which  he  is  best 
known :  he  wrote  some  sixty  books,  but  to  the 
major  part  of  the  reading  public  he  is  "the  author 
of  Un  Male!'  There  would  be  no  risk  in  saying 
that  this  is  the  best,  as  it  certainly  is  the  most 
famous  Belgian  novel.  But  it  is  more  than  a 
novel,  it  is  a  lyric  ecstasy,  a  poem  in  prose,  a 
panegyric  of  forest  and  farm,  a  litany  of  instinct. 
The  book,  which  was  written  at  a  farm,  opens  with 
a  wonderful  description  of  dawn  in  an  orchard, 
where  Cachapres,  a  poacher  famed  far  and  wide 
for  his  prowess  and  agility,  has  spent  the  night. 
When  he  awakens  he  sees,  from  where  he  lies,  the 
farmer's  daughter,  Germaine,  opening  her  bed- 
room window.  "  Then  something  extraordinary 
happened.  He  looked  at  her,  with  his  great  teeth 
bared.     On  his  cheeks  there  was  a  broad,  cajoling 

smile,  and  his  eyes  seemed  lost  in  a  mist.     A  beast 

67 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

awoke  in  him,  wild  and  tender."  The  story 
follows  up  the  pursuit  and  the  capture  of  this 
sturdy  wench ;  but  the  love  events  are  not  more 
exciting  than  the  detailed  description  of  the 
poacher's  life  in  the  forest,  his  snaring  of  animals 
by  night,  his  daring  excursions  to  the  neighbour- 
ing town  to  dispose  of  the  game  he  has  killed, 
his  hairbreadth  escapes  from  the  gamekeepers 
who  are  on  his  track.  It  is  all  realism ;  but  the 
realism  is  mellowed  with  poetry. 

There  are  many  things  in  Un  Male  which  the 
memory  will  not  let  go.  There  are  the  kermesse 
scenes,  full  of  gluttony  and  lust.  There  is  a 
Homeric  description  of  a  fight  in  an  inn :  every 
phase  stands  out  with  the  vigour  of  Meissonier's 
Une  Rixe.  But  all  the  interest  centres  round 
Cachapres  in  his  defiant  and  full-blooded  outlawry. 
"  Some  folks  chop  wood,"  he  says  to  Germaine, 
"others  plough;  some  have  trades.  I'm  fond  of 
animals."  Brute  as  he  is,  he  is  a  fascinating 
character,  modelled  to  the  mystery  of  the  forest ; 
and  when  the  nets  of  his  fate  close  round  him, 
when  at  last  he  is  hunted  down  and  hit  by  the 

bullet  of  a  gendarme,   the  novel  gathers   all   the 

68 


Camille  Lemonnier 

elemental  force  of  a  great  and  inevitable  tragedy. 
He  drags  himself  through  the  briars  of  a  thicket 
to  die  as  a  wounded  beast  might  die ;  and  in  his 
death-throes  he  is  tended  by  a  ragged  little  wench 
who  has  grown  up  like  a  squirrel  in  the  woods  and 
has  helped  him  in  his  poaching.  He  has  hardly 
noticed  the  little  thing ;  but  she  with  her  wild  heart 
has  loved  him.     She  will  not  leave  him. 

"  She  thought  he  was  asleep  and  called  out  to  him  ; 
he  did  not  stir.  She  touched  his  skin,  lightly :  it  was 
already  hard  and  horribly  cold.  Then  she  flew  into  a 
rage  and  shook  him  as  hard  as  she  could.  His  body, 
as  stiff  as  stone,  moved  like  a  lump  of  something.  What 
was  the  matter  with  him  ?  She  bent  down  over  him,  put 
her  arms  round  him,  kissed  him  with  her  hot  lips,  and 
felt  as  though  a  wave  of  love  flooded  her. 

"  She  had  come  across  dead  animals  lying  in  her  path, 
and  they  had  been  stiff  like  this.  .  .  .  She  did  not  shed  a 
tear.  She  crouched  by  his  body,  put  her  thin  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  all  day  long  she  lay  with  her  face  to  his, 
plunging  her  sharp  and  crazy  eyes  into  his  glassy  eye- 
balls. She  looked  at  him  with  stupefaction.  And  then 
she  caressed  him  again  with  her  burning  hands.  What 
did  it  matter  if  he  was  dead,  now  that  he  was  hers.  The 
sly  stirrings  of  her  virginity,  which  she  had  had  to  hide 
from  him  when  he  was  alive,  now  cast  off  all  restraint 
on   this    unresisting   corpse.       Emboldened    by  the    dead 

69 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

man's  consent,  she  fondled  him,  pressed  him  to  her  with 
a  savage  tenderness,  without  horror  or  disgust. 

"  At  nightfall  a  wild  cat  appeared,  attracted  by  the 
smell.  She  drove  it  away  with  stones.  Then  crows 
perched  on  a  neighbouring  tree  and  croaked  there,  as 
grave  as  judges  pronouncing  judgment.  She  screamed 
to  frighten  them  away.  She  returned  to  the  hut,  but 
said  nothing  to  her  parents,  jealously  keeping  her  secret 
for  herself,  and  when  morning  dawned  she  went  back 
to  him. 

"When  some  days  had  passed,  she  saw  a  horrible 
thing :  the  wound  was  slowly  moving,  with  a  slow  undu- 
lation that  never  stopped.  .   .   . 

"  She  screamed,  and  fell  flat  on  her  hands,  with  her 
head  in  the  grass." 

Sad  and  terrible  as  the  ending  of  Un  Male  is, 
it  is  not  a  depressing  book.  It  is  saturated  with 
health ;  it  throbs  with  virility ;  and  it  has  the  in- 
spiriting force  of  all  healthy  and  virile  things. 
Le  Mort,  on  the  other  hand,  has  the  statuesque 
lugubriousness  of  a  Dance  of  Death.  Le  Mort  is 
just  as  much  a  hymn  to  Death  as  Un  Mdle  is  a 
hymn  to  Life.  To  this  extent  they  are  companion 
volumes — the  medal  and  its  reverse.  Le  Mort 
appeared  a  year  after   Un  Male,   in    1882.     It  is 

the    long    drawn-out    agony    of    remorse    of   two 

70 


I 


Camille  Lemonnier 

brothers,  who  have  been  driven  by  avarice  to 
murder. 

The  psychological  series  opens  with  L' HysUrique 
(1885).  This,  the  best  of  the  series  as  well  as  the 
first,  is  the  lurid  story  of  the  guilty  love  of  a  per- 
verted priest  for  one  of  his  flock,  an  anaemic  girl 
whose  retarded  puberty,  breaking  forth  at  last  when 
she  has  whipped  herself  into  ecstasies  of  religious 
fervour,  plunges  her  into  mystic  hallucinations,  in 
the  spasms  of  which  she  believes  that  her  seducer 
is  Jesus.  Splendidly  drawn  is  the  figure  of  the 
cleric,  with  his  sexual  disgrace  motived  by  his 
descent  from  the  Spanish  conquerors  of  Flanders. 
This  priest,  however,  is  not  wholly  guilty  of  his 
hellish  crimes  ;  there  is  a  note  of  discreet  sympathy 
in  the  characterisation.  It  is  the  system,  the 
cloistering,  which  is  wrong — this  strong  man,  who 
is  overcome  by  his  blood  and  the  hypnotic  sugges- 
tiveness  of  the  rising  sap  in  springtime,  might  have 
been  a  stalwart  soldier,  a  headlong  man  of  action. 

L' HysUrique  was  followed  by  Happe'Chair 
(1886),  a  documented  study  of  the  life  of  workers 
in  rolling-mills.     This  novel,  which  owes  something 

to  Meunier's  plastic  art,  has  often  been  compared 

71 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

with  Zola's  Germinal^  but  according  to  Bazalgette 
Lemonnier's  novel  was  "historically  anterior." 
Germinal  had,  however,  appeared  the  year  before ; 
and  Happe-Chair  is  dedicated  to  Zola.  It  would 
be  hard  to  prove  that  Lemonnier  was  not  directly 
influenced,  in  the  novels  of  his  second  period,  by 
Zola.  There  is,  for  one  thing,  the  exaltation  of  the 
milieu  into  a  grandiose  symbol.  The  life  of  the 
b^guinage,  sordid,  and  centred  in  creature  comforts, 
in  U Hystirique  is  not  excessively  enforced  ;  but  in 
Happe-Chair  the  rolling-mill  is  as  much  an  obsession 
as  the  coal-mine  is  in  Germinal.  Nevertheless, 
Lemonnier  does  not  belong  with  a  disciple's  de- 
votion to  the  school  of  M^dan ;  he  follows  the 
lead,  but  with  independence.  He  is  less  pedantic ; 
he  is  more  alive.  It  is  difficult  for  him  to  keep  the 
poet  down  :  where  his  work  is  Zolaesque,  it  reminds 
one  of  La  Faute  de  rAbbi  Mouret,  that  intense 
poem.  The  only  novels  of  Lemonnier  which  can 
fairly  be  censured  as  being  in  Zola's  unpleasant 
manner  are  Madame  Lupar  (1888)  and  La  Fin  des 
Bourgeois  (1892). 

In   1888   Lemonnier   was    fined    one   thousand 

francs    and    costs    in    Paris    for    his    short    story 

72 


Camille  Lemonnier 

V Enfant  du  Crapaud,  which  had  appeared  in  Gil 
Bias,  to  which  he  contributed  many  of  the  short 
stories  collected  in  various  volumes.  L' Enfant  du 
Crapaud  ^diS  reprinted  in  Ceux  de  la  Glebe  (1889), 
perhaps  Lemonnier's  best  collection  of  short  stories, 
with  its  description  of  the  dragging  horror  of  the 
lives  of  those  who  till  the  soil.  L' Enfant  du  Crapaud 
was  condemned  in  spite  of  the  eloquence  of  Edmond 
Picard,  who  had  gone  to  Paris  to  defend  his  fellow- 
countryman.  Lemonnier  was  not  frightened  into 
modifying  his  realistic  method,  and  the  next  novel 
of  his  which  appeared,  Le  Possddd  (1890),  might 
not  unreasonably  have  shocked  conservative  minds, 
although  in  justice  to  Lemonnier  it  must  be  said 
that  he  was  never  a  pornographer — he  was  merely 
a  great  writer  who,  at  all  events  during  this  psych- 
ological period  which  stretches  from  L' HystSrique 
to  La  Faute  de  Madame  Chat  vet,  thought  it  his 
duty  to  dive  into  the  motive  forces  of  disease  and 
perversion  and  to  describe  life  as  he  found  it, 
without  palliation.  Realism  and  Satanism  were 
the  fashion,  that  is  all ;  and  Lemonnier  in  his 
prose    went    no  farther    than,    for   instance,    I  wan 

Gilkin  in  his  verse.     Le  Possede  shows  the  genesis 

73 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

and  rapid  growth  of  perverted  sex  instincts  in  an 
old  man,  a  magistrate  who  has  lived  honourably 
till  his  fiftieth  year. 

A  few  years  later  Lemonnier  was  again  prose- 
cuted for  immoral  writing,  this  time  at  Brussels. 
He  was  defended  by  Edmond  Picard  again,  aided 
by  the  novelist  Henry  Carton  de  Wiart ;  and  he 
was  acquitted.  It  was  again  a  short  story  which 
had  given  offence,  H Homme  qui  tue  les  Femmes 
(reprinted  in  Dames  de  Voiupte,  1892),  quite  a 
harmless  presentation  of  the  crimes  of  Jack  the 
Ripper.  Lemonnier  was  prosecuted  for  the  third 
time,  at  Bruges,  for  the  publication  of  U Homme 
en  Amour  (iSgy) ;  and  he  was  acquitted  in  triumph, 
the  occasion  being  seized  by  his  friends  and  sym- 
pathisers to  do  honour  to  his  art.  H Homme  en 
Amour  and  Le  Possede  are  really  variations  of  the 
same  theme ;  but  the  later  novel  is  more  universal 
in  its  application,  and  more  in  the  nature  of  a 
protest  against  the  atrophy  of  the  sex  instinct. 
It  forms  a  diptych  with  another  novel  of  protest, 
Georges  Eekhoud's  Escal- Vigor.  The  trial  at 
Bruges   inspired  Lemonnier  with  Les  Deux  Con- 

sciences^    an    avowedly    autobiographical    novel   in 

74 


Camille  Lemonnier 

which  he  pleads  his  own  case  against  his  judges 
and  justifies  his  literary  method.  Lighter  in  tex- 
ture is  Claudine  Lamour  (1893),  the  history  of  a 
Parisian  music-hall  star.  HArche  (1894),  a  fire- 
side idyl),  a  glorification  of  motherhood  and  family 
life,  points  forward  to  the  noble  novels  of  the  third 
period.  It  is  a  feminist  novel,  eloquent  of  the 
great  future  in  store  for  woman  when  her  emanci- 
pation is  complete.  La  Faute  de  Madame  Charvet 
(1895)  is  the  opposite  picture  to  L'Arche:  ruth- 
lessly it  exposes  the  naked  bones  of  adultery. 

Now  a  new  period,  Lemonnier 's  third  period, 
begins.  It  is  as  though  he  were  sick  of  the  de- 
pravities he  has  been  painting  with  such  conscien- 
tious truth,  as  though  he  had  turned  his  back  on 
perversion  and  adultery  and  taken  refuge  in  the 
haunts  of  his  youth,  in  the  open  country,  at  the 
heart  of  the  forest.  He  is  again  the  Lemonnier 
who  wrote  Un  Male ;  but  chastened  by  his  long 
pilgrimage  through  the  labyrinth  of  dingy  streets 
and  with  a  new  message  intense  as  the  religion  of 
an  apostle.  This  message  has  all  the  freshness, 
in    his  glowing  presentation  of  it,   of  a  new  and 

miraculous    discovery ;    and    yet    it    is    essentially 

75 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Rousseau's  preaching  of  the  return  to  nature,  to 
instinct.  There  is  no  pretence  of  "  philosophy "  : 
Lemonnier  does  nothing  more  than  expound  a  view 
of  life  which  amounts  to  a  robust  futurism.  He 
writes  Lile  Vierge  (1897),  which  was  to  be  the 
first  part  of  a  trilogy  showing  the  progress  of  man 
through  tribulation  to  the  consciousness  of  divinity. 
Here  Lemonnier  had  intended  to  lead  up  to  the 
same  conception  of  the  man-god  as  informs  the 
later  work  of  Verhaeren  and  Maeterlinck.  No  other 
part  of  the  trilogy  was  completed — perhaps  the 
plan  seemed  too  deliberate  to  Lemonnier,  who  was 
first  and  foremost  an  artist  impelled  by  the  mood 
of  the  moment,  and  always  more  attached  to  the 
character  than  to  the  idea.     But  in  Adam  et  Eve 

(1899)  the  legend  is  continued — a  man  who  has 
suffered  greatly  flees  to  the  forest,  and  finds  calm 
and  content  in  the  physical  activity  of  primitive 
existence.  There  is  the  spirit  of  Robinson  Crusoe 
in  Adam  et  nve ;   in  Au  Coeur  Frais  de  la  Forit 

(1900)  there  is  the  witchery  of  The  Blue  Lagoon. 

Two  waifs,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  find  their  way  from 

the   slums    of  a   city  to   the  heart  of  a   mythical 

forest ;    here   they    learn    to   use   their   hands  and 

76 


Camille  Lemonnier 

their  brains ;  here  they  have  their  first  child,  and 
from  here  they  set  forth  to  found  the  ideal  city 
of  the  future. 

If  in  this  series  of  novels  there  is  one  tendency 
more  evident  than  another,  it  is  the  tendency 
to  socialism — not  the  socialism  of  parties,  but  a 
doctrine  of  brotherly  affection  and  of  the  nobility 
of  labour,  an  intuition  of  the  future.  Socialism 
is  thrust  openly  into  the  foreground  in  Le  Vent 
dans  les  Moulins  (1901).  This  is  more  a  poem 
than  a  novel :  it  is  a  hymn  to  "  Mother  Flanders." 
This  Flanders,  however,  is  not  defined  by  names 
and  drawn  with  clear-cut  lines :  it  is  all  a  dream- 
land, a  land  drowned  in  mists,  a  land  of  shy 
and  awkward  dreamers,  a  land  of  kitchen  gardens 
and  orchards,  creeping  canals,  farms  with  green 
shutters  and  red-tiled  roofs,  roads  that  run  between 
lines  of  poplars,  with  the  river  Lys  meandering 
through  the  landscape.     What  a  different  country 

\  is  this  to  that  painted  with  opulent  colour  in  the 
early  novels,  that  country  of  teeming  fertility  and 

\  ruthless  violence  !  The  characters,  too,  have  grown 
gentle ;  they  are  another  race.  Even  the  militant 
socialists,  who,  at  the  bidding  of  the  gentry,  are 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

attacked  with  stones  at  their  meetings,  have  more 
of  milk  and  honey  than  of  gall. 

Le  Vent  dans  les  Moulins  is  Flemish  through 
and  through :  it  is  informed,  not  by  French 
realism,  but  by  Flemish  mysticism.  These  taci- 
turn peasants,  who  "  are  shaken  to  the  marrow 
by  life  and  yet  say  things  which  belie  the  force 
of  their  emotion,"  are  akin  to  those  of  Stijn 
Streuvels.  A  Fleming  to  the  core  is  the  hero. 
Dries  Abeels,  the  son  of  a  flax  merchant. 
Dries  is  a  socialist ;  but  he  is  also  a  rentier. 
The  intention  is  fixed  in  his  heart  to  give  all 
he  has  to  the  poor ;  he  is  convinced  that  it  is 
his  duty  to  learn  some  manual  trade  and  live  by 
the  exercise  of  it,  as  those  do  who  live  and  toil 
around  him.  But,  well-nourished  as  he  is,  with 
his  "bullock's  blood,"  he  is  fond  of  good  eating; 
he  is  idle ;  he  does  not  like  early  rising.  In  the 
end  his  better  nature  prevails ;  he  shakes  his 
sloth  away,  rises  heroically  before  the  sun,  and 
binds  himself  apprentice  to  a  carpenter.  What 
follows  is  a  healthy  glorification  of  manual  labour, 
as    in   the   other    novels   of  this   period.       He    is 

no  longer  Dries  the  gentleman  of  means ;   he  is 

78 


Camille  Lemonnier 

Dries  the  carpenter — and  a  good  carpenter  at  that, 

for  he  works  with  love,   reading  poems  into  the 

wood   he   handles.      Now    he    is    conscious    that 

"the   man   who    does    not   work   has   no  right  to 

the  bread  he  eats."     Now,  and  now  only,  he  has 

the  right   to  preach  socialism  to  the  labourers — a 

hard  task,  even  when  fortified  by  personal  example  : 

for  clergy  and  gentry  are  leagued  against  progress, 

and  to  teach  the  dignity  and  the  rights  of  labour 

is  like  driving  nails  into  beechwood. 

There  is  scarcely  a  hint  of  sensual  things  in  Le 

Vent  dans  les  Moulins.     There  is  a  love  story  ;  but 

it  is  one  of  great  restraint  and  chastity.    The  novels 

of  primitive  life  at  the  heart  of  the  forest  are  pure 

in  intention ;  but  their  very  purpose,  the  hymning 

of  natural   life,   leads   to   scenes   of  initiation  and 

marital  passion.     Le   Vent  dans  les  Moulins  ends 

with  an  engagement  which  is  likely  to  be  long ;  and 

with  Dries  content  to  wait  for  his  little  housekeeper. 

Equally  pure  in  tone  is  Le  Petit  Homme  de  Dieu 

i  (1902).     It  may  be  called  a  companion  volume  of 

t 

i]  Le  Vent  dans  les  Moulins  ;  both  are  "  local "  novels, 

,11 

\\  hymning  the  soul  of  Flanders.     But  whereas  Le 

f\  Vent  dans  les  Moulins  generalises  the  landscape, 
1  79 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Le  Petit  Homme  de  Dieu  centres  in  one  dead  city 
— in  Furnes-la-Marine  (Fumes  by  the  Sea),  with 
its  old  church  of  Saint  Walburga,  its  old  houses, 
and  its  age-old  customs.  The  dominant  picture  is 
that  of  the  Ommegangy  the  procession  which  from 
time  immemorial  has  been  seen  every  year  in 
Fumes — the  chief  inhabitants  proceed  through  the 
town  in  solemn  state,  clad  as  New  Testament 
figures.  Georges  Rency  has  described  the  cere- 
mony : 

"  Amid  a  great  crowd  of  simple  folks,  fishermen  and 
farmers,  pass  in  procession  the  characters  of  the  Gospels. 
The  Wise  Kings  from  the  East  are  there,  seeking  the 
stable  of  Bethlehem.  Herod  and  his  courtiers  are  plot- 
ting the  death  of  Jesus,  Mary  Magdalene  displays  her 
beauty  and  her  jewels.  Christ  himself  appears,  mounted  on 
a  she-ass,  among  palms  and  hailed  by  cries  of  *  Hosanna  ! ' 
Farther  on  he  appears  a  second  time,  bending  under  his 
cross,  halting  at  all  the  stages  of  Calvary.  Finally,  the 
chariot  of  the  Ascension  shows  him  soaring  in  glory 
eternal.  Penitents,  male  and  female,  barefoot  and  in 
cowls,  moan  as  they  bear  their  gallows." 

The  old  city  is  described  with  meticulous  accu- 
racy, with  the  quaint  realism  of  old  Flemish  genre 

pictures.      But    mysticism,    not   realism,    emanates 

80 


Camille  Lemonnier 

from  the  whole.  The  Ommegang  has  a  subtle 
influence :  the  influence  which  the  Passion  Play  has 
on  the  villagers  of  Oberammergau  : 

"  In  this  strange  little  town  of  Furnes,  people  never 
knew  exactly  in  what  period  things  were  happening :  all 
the  events  of  the  day  took  on  a  sacred  appearance." 

The  characters  call  one  another  by  the  names  of 
the  personages  they  represent :  thus,  the  locksmith 
is  Pilate  to  his  cronies  in  his  very  shop,  and  the 
Wise  Kings  from  the  East  cannot  divest  them- 
selves of  their  regal  dignity  even  when  they  sit 
down  to  their  beer  in  the  inn.  But  the  one 
who  is  most  conscious  of  his  sacred  character  is 
Ivo  Mabbe,  the  little  ropemaker  who  takes  the 
part  of  Jesus  and  is  for  that  reason  known  as 
"  Le  Petit  Homme  de  Dieu."  In  the  intensity 
of  his  simple  piety  he  grows  close  to  the  mind 
of  the  Saviour,  so  close  that  he  begins  to  iden- 
tify himself  with  the  part  he  plays.  This  phase 
of  religious  mania  has  often  been  described  :  by 
G^rhart  Hauptmann  among  others  in  The  Apostle 
and  The  Foolin  Christ  Emanuei  Quint.     Haupt- 

mann's  Christs  are  mad  :  Ivo  is  merely  on  the  way 

8i  F 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

to  madness.  He  only  takes  Christ's  teaching 
literally,  and  shocks  his  fellow-townsmen,  who  are 
nothing  if  not  "respectable,"  by  associating  with 
outcasts,  to  whom  he  preaches  the  Gospel,  which  in 
his  mouth  is  identical  with  socialism.  But  the  good 
burghers  of  Furnes  do  not  approve  of  socialism, 
which  to  their  minds  is  very  far  removed  from 
Christianity.  They  turn  against  "  the  little  Christ- 
man  "  : 

"  Since  the  day  when  for  the  first  time  he  had  gone  into 
these  slums  and  alleys,  every  one  had  turned  against  him. 
Herod  told  him  clearly  that  he  was  running  the  risk  of 
losing  the  esteem  of  decent  people.  Pilate,  the  lock- 
smith, had  reproached  him  for  bothering  about  things 
which  did  not  concern  him.  Some  of  the  doctors  of  the 
Temple  laughed  at  him  from  the  threshold  of  their  doors 
when  he  was  passing,  and  even  Joseph,  the  carpenter,  a 
holy  man,  avoided  him." 

Ivo  grows  the  more  determined  in  his  Christi- 
anity, and  he  persists  in  his  ministrations  to  the 
outcast  of  the  earth,  considering  that  he  has  the 
right  to  repeat  Christ's  words.  This  extreme 
Christianity  of  his,  however,  as  he  comes  to  see, 
degenerates  into  a   moral  pride.     In  the  end   \ie 

realises  that  he  is  not  and  cannot  be  Christ ;  and 

82 


Camille  Lemonnier 

that  he  must  first  of  all  practise  humility.  Now  he 
returns  to  Cordula,  the  rich  farmer's  daughter  from 
the  dunes,  who  had  long  been  betrothed  to  him, 
but  whom  he  had  kept  at  a  distance  because  she 
played  the  part  of  Mary  Magdalene  (how  could 
Christ  marry  the  sinner  ?). 

Another  novel  of  Lemonnier's,  La  Chanson  du 
Carillon,  has  its  scene  in  a  dead  city,  in  Bruges. 
Of  his  other  novels  Le  Sang  et  les  Roses  (1901) 
should  be  mentioned.  The  theme  is  daring :  a 
childless  husband  agrees  to  let  his  wife  be  loved  by 
another  man,  for  the  sake  of  the  child  she  desires 
and  for  which  her  nature  cries  out. 

Lemonnier  was  not  a  French  novelist.  He  was 
essentially  a  Flemish  novelist :  he  is  as  much  the 
novelist  of  Flanders  as  Verhaeren  is  the  poet  of 
Flanders.  Not  that  he  situated  his  novels  entirely 
in  Flemish  districts  :  in  such  novels  as  Happe-Chair 
he  has  described  the  Walloons,  and  painted  Walloon 
scenes  with  perfect  precision.  But  his  whole  char- 
acter was  Flemish,  violently  Flemish,  both  in  the 
realism  of  the  earlier  novels  and  the  mysticism  of 
those  which  came  later.     Lemonnier  travelled  little, 

only  in  France,  Belgium,  Holland,  and  Germany. 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

His  impressions  of  Germany  he  described  in  En 
Allemagne,  which  contains  valuable  art  criticism  of 
the  galleries  in  Munich.  Even  when  he  had  be- 
come famous  in  Paris,  when  he  was  acknowledged 
in  Paris  as  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  French 
writers,  he  continued  to  live  in  Brussels,  a  guide, 
counsellor,  and  friend  to  the  tyros  of  literature, 
encouraging  the  diffident  to  plunge  into  the  whirl- 
pool, instilling  his  own  breezy  courage  into  those 
who  drew  back. 

Lemonnier  was  a  great  optimist.  But,  unlike 
Verhaeren  and  Maeterlinck,  he  had  not  to  pass 
through  a  stage  of  pessimism.  His  optimism  was 
a  part  of  his  constitution ;  it  is  the  optimism  of  a 
healthy  man. 

Camille  Lemonnier  died  in  June  191 3.  He  was 
buried  in  the  fulness  of  summer,  on  a  hot  day,  and 
the  roses  that  covered  his  coffin  scented  the  streets, 
says  George  Rency,  long  after  the  procession  had 
passed. 


84 


CHAPTER    IV 
GEORGES   EEKHOUD 

In  poultry-fancying  circles  there  has  of  late  years 
been  a  boom  in  the  Campine  fowl,  a  small,  hand- 
some bird  with  lovely  eyes.  Most  of  its  admirers 
know  that  it  is  a  Belgian  fowl,  but  few  realise  that 
it  keeps  some  of  the  qualities  of  the  pheasant 
because  it  is  by  nature  a  moorland  fowl,  a  native 
of  the  Campine  (in  Flemish,  Kempen),  that  vast 
stretch  of  rusty  heather  and  golden  broom  which 
lies  above  Antwerp,  Malines,  and  Louvain  —  a 
region  "desolate,   but  full  of  character." 

Half  the  province  of  Antwerp  and  more  than 
half  of  the  province  of  Limburg  belong  to  the 
Campine.  The  few  railway  lines  which  cross  it 
have  made  little  change  in  its  old-world  character, 
and  in  the  pagan  savagery  of  its  inhabitants. 
The  little  towns  are  far  scattered — Herenthals 
(the  capital),  Diest,  Sichem,  Averbode.    Round  the 

hamlets,  oases  of  green  with  church  spires  piercing 

85 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

the  sky  like  bayonets,  graze  thin  cattle,  tied  to 
posts  lest  they  should  sicken  by  eating  too  much 
of  the  spurrey  which  in  this  desolate  region  takes 
the  place  of  grass  and  clover.  Many  hamlets  are 
unconnected  by  regular  roads,  but  some  sort  of 
communication  is  kept  up  by  a  service  of  lumber- 
ing carts  drawn  by  bullocks.  The  sandy  wastes 
are  sucked  down  by  spongy  fens  and  blown  into 
hillocks  held  together  by  starved,  reddish  heather 
and  bristling  broom  and  furze.  Here  and  there 
rise  stunted  larches  and  struggling  fir  plantations. 
The  mystery  of  these  waste  lands  with  their  black 
walls  of  pinewoods,  their  malignant  mazes  of  paths, 
their  wrinkled  ponds,  and  their  incendiary  sunsets 
in  copper  skies,  has  been  magically  described  by 
Verhaeren  in  his  poem  "  Silence "  ;  and  it  is  the 
country  which  Georges  Eekhoud  has  seized  for 
his  own,  as  Thomas  Hardy  has  seized  Wessex. 

"  The  country  I  love  best,"  says  Eekhoud  in  Les 
Kermesses,  "  does  not  exist  for  any  tourist,  and  doctors 
will  never  recommend  it.  In  this  certainty  my  jealous 
and  selfish  fervour  takes  heart.  Worn  by  the  weather, 
the  prey  of  fogs,  are  these  plains  of  mine.  Except  for 
the  schorres  of  the  polder,  the  region  fertilised  by  the 
alluvia   of   the    Scheldt,    few  of  its    corners   have    been 

86 


Georges  Eekhoud 


cleared  for  cultivation.  One  canal,  starting  from  the 
Scheldt,  irrigates  its  heather-grown  wastes  and  farmed 
patches,  and  hardly  a  railway  connects  its  unknown 
townships  with  the  outer  world.  The  politician  execrates 
it,  the  merchant  despises  it,  and  it  frightens  and  be- 
wilders the  legion  of  poor  painters.  The  population 
remains  robust,  shy,  obstinate,  and  ignorant.  No  music 
moves  me  as  the  Flemish  tongue  does  in  their  mouths. 
They  speak  it  with  a  rhythmical  drawl,  feeding  its  guttu- 
ral syllables  abundantly,  and  its  rude  consonants  fall 
as  heavy  as  their  fists.  Their  movements  are  slow  and 
well-poised  ;  they  are  broad-backed  and  chubby-cheeked, 
sanguine,  taciturn.  I  have  never  met  plumper  wenches, 
with  firmer  chests  or  more  challenging  eyes  than  the 
wenches  have  in  this  country.  The  lads  in  their  blue 
smocks  have  a  determined  swagger.  In  their  drinking- 
bouts  they  slash  away  with  their  knives.  At  the  ker- 
messe  they  gorge  and  swill  with  a  kind  of  awkward 
solemnity  and  pursue  their  women  folks  with  no  pretence 
of  decency.  .  .  . 

"  They  cling  to  the  faith  of  their  fathers,  go  on  pil- 
grimages, honour  their  priest,  believe  in  the  devil,  in 
spell-casting,  and  in  the  evil  hand,  that  jettatura  of  the 
north." 

• 

Georges  Eekhoud  was  born  in  1854  in  Ant- 
werp. His  father,  an  official  in  an  Insurance 
Company,    was   a    Fleming ;    his  mother   was  the 

daughter  of  a  German  married  to  a  Dutch  woman. 

87 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

The  father's  character  and  early  death  have  been 
described  by  his  son,  with  great  tenderness,  in 
"  Ex-Voto,"  one  of  the  short  stories  in  Les  Ker- 
messes.  The  boy  was  eleven  when  his  father  died, 
and  he  was  sent  to  school  in  Switzerland.  His 
school-life  here,  where  he  acquired  a  good  know- 
ledge of  German,  English,  and  Italian,  he  has 
described  in  various  parts  of  his  work,  particularly 
in  "  Climat^rie,"  one  of  the  short  stories  collected 
in  Mes  Communions,  and  in  Escal- Vigor.  His 
schooling  finished,  his  uncle,  a  candle-manufacturer 
and  the  mayor  of  Borgerhout,  near  Antwerp,  tried 
to  make  an  engineer  of  him.  This  plan  failing,  the 
boy  was  sent  to  the  Military  School,  but  after  six 
months  he  ran  away.  The  uncle  now  refused  to 
have  anything  more  to  do  with  him,  but,  as  his 
guardian,  he  let  him  have  the  interest  on  his 
father's  estate,  about  a  hundred  francs  a  month. 
Not  being  able  to  make  both  ends  meet  with  this 
pittancd',  Eekhoud  joined  the  staff  of  an  Antwerp 
newspaper.  All  his  relations  had  cast  him  off; 
but  after  a  time  his  grandmother,  a  rich  woman, 
relented,  and  took  him  into  her  house.  Here  his 
life  was  free  from  care ;  and  it  was  a  great  forma- 


Georges  Eekhoud 

tive  period,  for  he  had  the  opportunity  of  regular 

intercourse  with   painters  and   poets,  and  he  had 

leisure  to  read,  and  see  life.     These  events  of  his 

boyhood  and   youth   are  evidently  described  with 

considerable  truth  in  La  Nouvelle  Carthage,  which 

is  certainly  an  autobiographical  novel. 

In  1878  Eekhoud's  grandmother  died  and  left 

him  a  considerable  fortune.     His  great  desire  had 

been   to   be   a   gentleman    farmer ;    and   he   made 

haste    to    purchase    an    estate    in    the    north    of 

Antwerp,    in    the    village    of    Cappellen,    between 

the  polders  of  the  Scheldt  and  the  wastes  of  the 

Campine.     Here    he    hunted    and   lived   the   true 

squire's  life,  visited  all  the  kermesses,  and  acquired 

that    intimate    knowledge    of    peasants   and   rural 

customs  which    he   turned   to   such   good   account 

in  his  stories.     But   his   farming  was  a  disastrous 

failure  ;    and    he  was   soon    without   means   again. 

He  went  to  Brussels  and  joined  the  staff  of  the 

^toile  Beige  as  musical  and  literary  critic.     This 

was   in    1881,  just    at    the    time    when    the    new 

men    were    gathering    there    and    beginning   their 

campaign.       Eekhoud    became    a    firm    friend    of 

Theodore  Hannon   and    Camille    Lemonnier,    and 

89 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

with  them  he  contributed  to  La  Bohhne,  a  little 
review  which  had  a  short  life.  Soon,  however, 
Max  Waller  and  his  fighting  men  arrived  from 
Louvain — the  men  who,  as  Vance  Thompson 
says,  were  defiantly  young  and  wore  amaranthine 
waistcoats  and  flying  scarves.  La  Jeune  Belgique 
was  launched ;  and  Eekhoud  had  found  his  feet. 

In  1884  Les  Kermesses  appeared,  a  collection 
of  tales  containing  wonderfully  vigorous  descrip- 
tions of  local  customs  observed  at  Cappellen  and 
the  neighbourhood.  The  language  is  violent,  and 
often  reads  like  translated  Flemish ;  the  realism 
is  sometimes  revolting ;  but  several  of  the  tales 
are  masterpieces.  In  1886  followed  Kees  Doorik, 
a  curious  kind  of  novel — it  is  rather  a  short  story 
spun  out  by  descriptions  of  festivals.  It  may  be 
said  at  once  that  Eekhoud  has  never  been  able 
to  write  a  consecutive  novel :  all  his  "  novels  "  are 
made  up  of  detachable  episodes.  Kees  Doorik 
is  a  foundling  who  is  hired  (bought  as  a  slave, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  would  be 
more  correct)  by  a  rich  farmer  near  Antwerp. 
The  farmer  dies,  and   Kees,  who  by  this  time  has 

g^own  up   into   a  fine   young   fellow  with   all  the 

90 


Georges  Eekhoud 

routine  of  the  farm  at  his  fingers'  ends,  falls  in 
love  with  his  master's  young  widow,  and  hopes 
to  marry  her.  But  she  is  seduced  at  a  kermesse 
by  a  scapegrace  from  a  neighbouring  village, 
and  Kees  has  to  leave  the  farm  where  he  has 
grown  up  and  which  he  cannot  help  regarding 
as  his  own.  There  is  forced  symbolism  in  the 
exposition  of  his  love  for  the  fields  he  has  tilled  : 
la  campagne  has  a  double  meaning,  "  country " 
and  "  wife,"  and  the  rather  fanciful  idea  on  which 
the  gruesome  tragedy  is  based  is  that  Kees 
Doorik's  love  of  the  farmer's  widow  is  a  deser- 
tion, punishable  with  death,  of  his  real  wife,  the 
country. 

The  last  part  of  Kees  Doorik  is  taken  up 
by  a  description  of  the  "goose-riders'"  festival, 
a  most  villainous  and  brutal  custom  which  shows 
that  the  Flemings  of  to-day  are  much  what  they 
were  when  the  infante  Cardinal  Ferdinand  of 
Spain  wrote  to  his  brother  King  Philip :  "  Certo 
que  viven  come  bestias  en  esta  parte"  (They 
certainly  live  like  beasts  in  these  parts).  A  live 
goose  is   suspended   on   a   kind   of  gallows,    with 

its   head   hanging    downwards,   and    the   villagers 

91 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

ride  underneath  it  on  their  heavy  cart-horses, 
each  snatching  at  the  bird's  head  till  one  of 
them  wrenches  it  off.  The  one  who  performs 
the  feat  is  then  crowned  "  King  of  the  goose- 
riders,"  and  has  the  privilege  of  entertaining  the 
unsuccessful  competitors  to  a  banquet  and  a 
great  deal  of  drink.  It  is  after  such  a  festival 
that  Kees  comes  into  collision  with  the  creature 
who  has  supplanted  him  in  the  affections  of  the 
farmer's  wife.  There  is  a  fight,  and  Kees 
murders  his  rival.  The  description  of  the  murder 
is  a  good  sample  of  Eekhoud's  violence,  which  we 
are  asked  to  believe  (and  there  is  sufficient  con- 
firmation in  the  works  of  other  Belgian  authors 
—  notably  in  Verhaeren's  poem  "Peasants")  is 
justified  by  the  fury  of  Flemish  life  : 

"  He  plunged  the  knife  into  his  body,  drew  it  out, 
and  plunged  it  in  again.  He  had  previously  pulled  down 
the  fellow's  clothes  below  the  belt,  so  that  there  should 
be  nothing  in  the  way  of  the  blade.  At  the  first  thrust 
the  wretch  shrieked ;  '  O  Kees  !  Don't  do  that !  Mercy  ! 
O  Kees,  Kees ! '  Kees  took  no  notice.  He  was  sitting 
astride  of  him,  and  had  him  completely  in  his  power. 
He  crushed  George's  hips  between  his  thighs,  as  though 
he  were  riding  a  stallion.     With  one  hand  he  held  his 

92 


Georges  Eekhoud 


enemy  fast  by  the  throat,  to  keep  him  from  crying  out, 
and  with  the  other  he  slashed  away  at  him,  as  though 
he  were  hacking  with  a  pick  in  the  polder.  His  victim's 
groans  died  down.  To  silence  him  altogether,  he  thrust 
his  knife,  for  the  last  time,  into  his  neck,  as  you  do 
when  you  slaughter  a  pig.  .   .   ." 

Les  Milices  de  Saint- Frangois  (1886)  is  another 
tale  of  the  Campine.  Les  Nouvelles  Kermesses 
(1887)  is  quite  different  in  style  to  Les  Kermesses. 
These  tales  are  in  ordinary  French,  smooth  and 
somewhat  insipid,  not  at  all  in  the  rough  and 
jolting  language  Eekhoud  had  hammered  out  for 
himself  from  Flemish  rhythms.  There  is  interior 
evidence  that  the  stories  are  older  in  date  than 
the  first  collection  of  Kermesses.  The  first  story, 
for  instance,  reads  like  a  close  imitation  of  Con- 
science. Another  story,  "  Bon  pour  le  service," 
a  poignant  picture  of  military  life  in  Belgium,  is 
very  interesting  at  the  present  time.  Everyone 
who  has  lived  in  Belgium  knows  that  the  army 
is  despised,  and  that  to  have  to  join  the  army  is 
to  lose  caste. 

"  In  all  these  vagabonds  in  uniform  he  found  the 
same  passive  character.     They  all  looked  as  if  they  had 

93 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

been  flung  out  of  their  orbit.  In  their  eyes  was  the 
expression  of  a  caged  beast,  far  from  its  native  dime. 
To  whatever  branch  of  the  service  they  belonged,  they 
were  all  sheep-like  in  their  ways,  awkward,  humiliated, 
abashed.  Instinctively  they  made  way  and  yielded  the 
causeway  to  the  civilian.  They  wore,  not  the  uniform 
of  the  soldier,  but  the  livery  of  the  pariah.  Instead 
of  representing  an  army,  of  breathing  out  the  patriotism 
of  a  nation,  of  incarnating  the  best  of  the  nation's  blood 
and  youth,  they  were  conscious  of  playing  the  part  of 
mercenaries.  They  were  considered  everywhere  as  re- 
fuse, as  a  burden,  as  people  who  don't  work.  When 
times  were  calm,  these  soldiers  of  a  neutral  country 
were  apt  to  be  confused  with  indigents  kept  by  the 
public  rates,  with  the  inmates  of  workhouses  and  orphan- 
ages. This  did  not  prevent  the  civilians  from  expecting 
that  the  conscripts  would  in  case  of  strikes  fire  on  their 
brothers  of  the  mines  and  factories." 

La  Nouvelle  Carthage  is  a  very  ambitious  book. 
It  aims  at  reproducing  the  whole  life  of  Antwerp 
in  recent  times : 

*'To  paint  Antwerp,  with  its  own  life,  its  port,  its 
river,  its  sailors,  its  dock-labourers,  its  plump  women, 
its  rosy  children  whom  Rubens  in  olden  times  had 
thought  plastic  and  appetising  enough  to  fill  his  Para- 
dises and  Olympias,  to  paint  this  magnificent  breed  in 
its  ways,  its  costume,  its  atmosphere,  with  scrupulous 
and  fervent  care  of  its  special  customs  and  morals,  with- 

94 


I 


Georges  Eekhoud 

out  neglecting  any  of  the  correlations  which  accentuate 
and  characterise  it,  to  interpret  the  very  soul  of  this 
city  of  Rubens  with  a  sympathy  bordering  on  assimi- 
lation." 

Eekhoud  laboured  hard  to  carry  out  this  crowded 
programme ;  and  the  result  is  a  book  full  of  in- 
terest, but  not  a  novel.  It  is  rather  a  collection 
of  descriptive  essays  leavened  by  autobiography 
literally  transcribed  and  fired  by  a  fierce  spirit  of 
anarchism.  The  book  begins  after  the  funeral  of 
Laurent  Paridael's  father,  when  the  orphan  is  taken 
to  live  with  his  uncle,  a  retired  officer  in  the  Engi- 
neers (as  Eekhoud's  own  uncle  was),  who  is  now 
a  rich  manufacturer.  There  is  a  Zolaesque  de- 
scription of  the  candle  factory  in  a  chapter  which 
might  be  detached  and  issued  as  a  socialist  pam- 
phlet. To  Eekhoud  the  workmen  are  helots,  and 
the  employers  heartless  scamps.  The  machinery 
is  diabolical,  a  monster  always  on  the  watch  to 
seize  and  pulverise  those  who  tend  it.  In  the 
factory  the  toilers  are  slaves,  and  as  soon  as  they 
are  out  of  it  they  behave  like  beasts. 

It  is  a  curious  kind  of  socialism,  to  take  sides 

with  the  workman  against  the  master,  and  then 

95 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

make  him  out  to  be  a  swine.  And  with  sympathy 
for  his  swinishness,  one  is  afraid.  There  are,  how- 
ever, one  or  two  examples  of  partly  decent  work- 
people in  the  novel ;  but  these  characters  are 
obviously  spurious — they  are  imitations,  no  doubt, 
of  types  in  Dickens,  one  of  Eekhoud's  favourite 
authors.  Eekhoud  could  never  have  conceived  a 
clean-limbed  socialist  like  the  chauffeur  in  Bernard 
Shaw's  Don  Juan.  But  Eekhoud  is  more  of  an 
anarchist  than  a  socialist ;  and  the  whole  doctrine 
of  La  Nouvelle  Carthage  tends,  with  regard  both 
to  morals  and  politics,  to  anarchism. 

Antwerp  is  above  all  a  great  commercial  city, 
and  it  was  this  aspect  which  was  bound  to  take 
the  foremost  part  in  the  novel.  Here  again 
Eekhoud  is  far  from  being  entirely  successful. 
He  is  too  one-sided  in  his  outlook  on  life.  With 
his  artist's  eyes  he  sees  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
busy  life  on  the  quays ;  these  dockers  in  all  their 
dirt  are  for  him  types  of  masculine  beauty  {beauU 
male  is  an  obsession  with  him) ;  and  he  describes 
their  activity  with  all  the  ?est  and  glow  of  Homer 
describing  a  battle  scene.  But  he  has  no  com- 
prehension of  mercantile  life  as  a  whole.     For  the 

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Georges  Eekhoud 

sake  of  relief,  perhaps,  he  introduces  a  pair  or  so 
of  honest  merchants ;  but  it  is  quite  evident  that 
he  looks  upon  merchants  as  a  class  with  the  bitter 
hate  of  a  jaundiced  anarchist.  From  such  a  stand- 
point it  was  quite  impossible  that  he  could  create 
an  adequate  picture  of  a  great  commercial  city : 
for  this,  idealism  would  be  needed.  There  is  more 
genius  in  Georges  Eekhoud's  little  finger  than  in 
the  whole  body  of  Thomas  Mann  or  Rudolf  Herzog  ; 
yet  these  two  German  authors  have  succeeded 
admirably  where  Eekhoud  has  failed  :  Mann  has 
transferred  Liibeck  with  all  its  charm  and  old- 
world  atmosphere  to  the  pages  of  his  Buddenbrooks, 
and  Herzog  in  Die  Hanseaten  has  given  a  fasci- 
nating picture  of  the  strain  and  stress  and  the 
far-seeing  aims  of  Hamburg  merchants.  Nothing 
could  be  more  dull  and  unlikely  than  Eekhoud's 
description  of  a  day  on  the  Antwerp  Exchange. 
He  gives  us  detail  added  to  detail ;  but  they  do 
not  fuse — we  only  get  a  glimpse  of  the  outward 
aspect  of  the  Exchange.  How  much  more  vivid 
is  Verhaeren's  symbolistic  vision  of  The  Exchange  ! 
The  poet  gets  at  the  soul  of  the  thing !  And  yet 
even  this  chapter  is  redeemed  by  a  fine  ending : 


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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

all  the  retailing  of  routine  leads  up  to  the  hammer- 
ing of  a  dishonest  merchant,  and  here  Eekhoud 
is  in  his  element — it  is  no  longer  a  question  of 
commercial  life,  there  is  physical  violence  to  de- 
scribe, and  the  narration  becomes  dramatic  and 
animated. 

The  later  chapters  of  La  Nouvelle  Carthage 
should  be  considered  as  a  series  of  essays.  The 
hero  moves  through  them  in  a  shadowy  sort  of 
way ;  but  by  this  time  all  interest  in  this  irritating 
anarchist  has  been  lost.  There  is  a  magnificent 
description  of  emigrants  arriving  at  Antwerp  and 
embarking  for  America ;  those  from  the  Campine 
with  sprigs  of  heather  in  their  caps,  and  with  hand- 
fuls  of  Campine  sand  sewn  into  sacks,  by  way 
of  scapulars.  Absolutely  unwarranted  by  the 
structure  of  the  book,  and  yet  perhaps  the  finest 
thing  in  it,  is  the  chapter  called  "  Le  Rietdijk." 
The  Rietdijk  is  (or  was)  a  street  in  Antwerp  con- 
taining such  property  as  that  which  Mrs.  Warren 
derived  profit  from  in  Brussels.  Verhaeren  has 
described  such  houses  in  his  poem  "L'Etal"  (The 
Butcher's  Stall). 

Les   FusilUs   de   Malines   (1890)    is   hardly   a 

98 


Georges  Eekhoud 

novel  either.  It  is  not  even  a  historical  novel, 
though  it  relates  history  with  a  novelist's  imagina- 
tion. It  describes  how  the  peasants  of  the  Cam- 
pine,  when  the  Jacobins  introduced  conscription  in 
1798,  rose  in  rebellion,  marched  on  Malines,  and 
took  it  by  a  lucky  chance,  only  to  be  captured 
immediately  by  the  French,  and  mowed  down  or 
shot  as  rebels.  The  scenes  of  slaughter  are  splen- 
did ;  but  taken  as  a  whole  the  book  is  rather  thin. 

Mes  Communions  is  a  collection  of  tales,  most 
of  them  so  weak  that  they  may  be  juvenile  work 
which  has  at  last  found  a  publisher.  Some  of 
them  are  swamped  with  maudlin  sentiment  which 
is  not  natural  to  Eekhoud  and  is  clearly  due 
to  imitation  of  Conscience.  Some  of  the  stories, 
however,  are  sufficiently  revolutionary  in  concep- 
tion :  "  Burch  Mitsu "  has  been  reprinted  as  an 
anarchist  tract,  and  some  of  the  tales  show  that 
morbid  palliation  of  sodomy  which  brands  Eekhoud 
beyond  redemption.  It  is  significant  that  he  takes 
as  a  motto  for  the  book  that  passage  from  Suspiria 
de  Profundis  in  which  De  Quincey  confesses  that 
the  few  individuals  who  had  disgusted  him  were 

flourishing    people    of   good    repute,    whereas   he 

99 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

recollected    with   pleasure    and    good-will    all    the 
rascals  he  had  ever  known. 

Cycle  Patibulaire  (1892)  is  as  robust  as  Mes 
Communions  is  weak.  One  of  the  tales  it  is  com- 
posed of,  "  Hiep-Hioup,"is  a  masterpiece  of  morbid 
psychology.  A  gamekeeper,  who  on  the  death 
of  his  elder  brother  had  been  recalled  from  the 
priests'  seminary  to  take  his  father's  post,  and  who 
retains  the  deferential  manners  of  a  priest,  falls 
madly  in  love  with  a  light-o'-love,  and  in  the  end 
he  shoots  her.  The  other  tales  of  the  volume  relate 
such  cases  of  carnal  aberration.  "  Gentille  "  is 
the  life-story  of  a  farmer's  daughter  who  falls  in 
love  with  a  noted  smuggler  on  the  Flemish  coast, 
in  the  district  about  Coxyde,  Lombaertzyde,  and 
Furnes ;  she  runs  away  to  him  and  follows  him 
about  on  the  dunes  like  a  faithful  dog.  The 
smuggler  is  caught  and  dies  in  prison ;  and  the 
son  the  woman  bears  him  grows  up  a  hereditary 
blackguard.  To  her  son  she  transfers  the  love 
she  had  felt  for  the  father :  it  is  not  at  all 
maternal  love.  The  end  is  bestial :  the  wretch 
brings   filthy   little   girls   in   from  the    slums    and 

loves  them  in  the  presence  of  his  mother,  who  is 

100 


Georges  Eekhoud 

jealous  of  his  caresses.  "  Le  Quadrille  du  Lan- 
cier "  is  a  preliminary  study  for  the  bacchanalia 
of  Escal-  Vigor. 

Eekhoud  had  to  appear  in  the  Belgian  law- 
courts  to  answer  for  Escal- Vigor  (1899).  He  was 
acquitted.  It  is  not  so  much  a  palliation  as  a 
glorification  of  sodomy.  The  book  is  its  own 
condemnation  :  the  love-scenes  with  the  boy  are 
ridiculous  in  the  extreme.  The  curious  thing  is 
that  Eekhoud  should  have  lent  colour  to  the 
charge  of  depicting  his  own  character  by  sending 
the  hero  to  school  in  Switzerland  and  by  endowing 
him  with  other  personal  qualities.  Kehlmark,  the 
hereditary  "count  of  the  dike"  in  some  imaginary 
island  off  the  west  coast  of  Flanders,  has,  like 
Eekhoud,  inherited  the  property  of  his  grand- 
mother, and,  like  Eekhoud,  he  is  an  anarchist  in 
his  views  of  society.  In  this  partial  identification 
of  himself  with  the  hero  of  his  book,  however, 
Eekhoud  probably  does  no  more  than  show  his 
withering  contempt  for  public  opinion,  for,  so  far 
as  information  is  available,  he  is  an  inoffensive 
man  in  his  private  life,  and  dowered  with  solid 
citizen  virtues.     Kehlmark  has  been  taught  by  his 

lOI 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

love  of  art  to  appreciate  masculine  beauty.  On 
the  island  over  which  he  has  hereditary  jurisdiction 
he  takes  a  fancy  for  a  young  rascal  who  idles  away 
his  time  sunning  himself  on  the  dunes,  and  has 
learned  to  play  the  bugle  : 

"  Kehlmark  watched  the  bugle-player,  who  was  more 
robust  and  slender  than  the  other  boys,  and  had  a 
complexion  of  amber,  velvet  eyes  under  long  black  lashes, 
a  fleshy  and  very  red  mouth,  nostrils  dilated  by  a  mys- 
terious olfactory  sensuality,  and  black,  dense  hair.  The 
lines  of  his  body  were  brought  out  by  the  wretched 
dress  which  adhered  to  his  shape  as  the  fur  sticks  to 
the  elastic  limbs  of  feline  animals.  His  body,  delicately 
poised  and  twitching  to  and  fro,  seemed  to  be  following 
the  undulations  of  the  music  and  performing  a  very  slow 
dance,  like  the  shivering  of  aspens,  in  summer  nights 
when  the  breeze  is  but  the  breathing  of  plants.  The 
statuesque  posture  of  this  young  rustic,  who  with  the 
muscular  relief  of  his  mates  combined  a  subtle  perfection 
of  outline,  reminded  Kehlmark  exactly  of  Franz  Hals's 
Beed  Player.  His  heart  felt  oppressed,  he  held  his 
breath,  the  prey  of  too  great  a  fervour." 

This  passage  may  serve  to  [explain  and  (to 
some  extent)  excuse  the  book.  To  begin  with, 
no  one  will  deny  that  it  is  an  excellent  piece  of 
description.  Then,  it  is  evidently  the  transposi- 
tion of  a   well-known   picture.     Belgian   literature 

102 


Georges  Eekhoud 

is  full  of  such  transpositions.  The  example  best 
known  in  England  is  Maeterlinck's  Massacre  of 
the  Innocents.  So  that  in  such  a  book  as  Escal- 
Vigor,  which  cannot  too  strongly  be  condemned 
from  the  moral  point  of  view,  the  correct  stand- 
point of  criticism  is  to  regard  the  highly  coloured 
prose  as  essentially  a  poetisation  of  pictures.  Even 
where  the  picture  cannot  be  identified,  the  art  of 
the  description  has  evidently  been  taught  by  paint- 
ing or  sculpture. 

The  culmination  of  the  tragedy  is  appalling, 
and  cannot  even  be  hinted  at.  Recounted  in 
words,  the  story  of  the  vengeance  of  the  women 
of  the  island  is  terrible  indeed.  But  it  would  be 
hypocritical  not  to  allow  that  Eekhoud  by  the 
resistless  force  and  emotional  fury  of  his  descrip- 
tion has  gone  far  to  justify  his  daring.  If  it  is  not 
morality,  it  is  art.  And  after  all,  Eekhoud  has 
only  done  in  prose  what  Jordaens  and  Rubens  and 
other  artists  did  on  canvas.  This  chapter  of  the 
pagan  kermesse  is  a  picture  of  bacchanalia,  that 
is  all ;  and  as  a  picture,  it  is  superb. 

In    Les    Libertins    d'Anvers    something    very 

much  like  sexual  mania  runs  riot.     Ostensibly,  it 

103 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

is  a  picturesque  r^sum^  of  the  history  of  Antwerp 
through  the  ages,  with  special  reference  to  the 
sexual  anarchists  who  at  various  periods  have 
preached  their  **  religion  "  and  recruited  a  following. 
As  a  novel,  it  is  absurd ;  as  an  olla  podrida  of 
history,  anarchism,  obscenity,  and  local  colour  it 
has  a  certain  charm.  The  pictorial  part  is  again 
most  brilliant.  The  centrepiece  of  this  succes- 
sion of  pictures  is  the  Joyous  Entry  of  Charles  V 
into  Antwep. 

Other  novels  of  Eekhoud  are  La  Faneuse 
d' Amour  and  L' Autre  Vue.  He  has  written  con- 
siderably on  the  Elizabethans ;  his  Au  Steele  de 
Shakespeare  has  done  something  to  popularise 
Shakespeare  studies  in  Belgium.  That  Eekhoud 
is  not  an  exact  scholar,  however,  is  shown  by  the 
fact  that  he  speaks  of  Ben  Johnson.  (Maeter- 
linck, another  Belgian  Shakespearean,  talks  of 
Ben  Jhonson).  He  has  translated  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  Philaster  and  Marlowe's  Edward  II ; 
and  he  has  written  a  tragedy  of  Perkin  Warbeck^ 
a  fellow- Fleming  in  whom  he  celebrates  the  quali- 
ties of  the  race. 

Eekhoud    is    a    perplexing    personality.       He 
104 


Georges  Eekhoud 

attracts ;  he  repels.  He  may  be  admired ;  he 
cannot  be  loved.  He  has  the  most  energetic 
style  of  all  Belgian  writers ;  no  one  considers  him 
a  stylist.  Appreciation  of  his  descriptive  powers 
is  tempered  by  surprise  at  the  clumsiness  of  his 
construction.  He  is  overflowing  with  matter ;  and 
yet  he  repeats  himself  constantly — he  seems  to 
consider  that  what  he  has  once  written  has  per- 
manent and  incontrovertible  value  as  a  document, 
to  which  the  reader  may  be  referred  for  further 
information.  To  give  one  instance  of  this  irritat- 
ing habit :  the  passage  quoted  from  Les  Nouvelles 
Kermesses,  relating  the  contempt  felt  in  Belgium 
for  soldiers,  is  reproduced  in  La  Nouvelle  Carthage 
— with  some  additional  information  it  is  true,  as 
that  in  Antwerp  girls  refuse  to  dance  with  soldiers 
at  the  popular  balls.  Eekhoud's  artistry  is  in  de- 
scription, not  in  construction.  He  is  not  a  crafts- 
man, he  is  a  genius. 

He  is  full  of  matter ;  but  his  matter  has  a 
great  sameness.  He  is  a  rebel ;  and  he  can  create 
rebels.  Gentlefolks  he  cannot  create,  for  he  mis- 
judges them.     He  has  a  fixed  idea  that  the  rogue 

and  the  vagabond  is  a  free  man,  while  the  bourgeois 

105 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

is  hidebound  in  custom  ;  and  the  elucidation  of  this 
idea  is  the  main  purpose  of  his  best  work.  At 
first,  the  unexpectedness  of  the  doctrine  dazzles 
like  a  fine  paradox ;  in  the  long  run  it  palls.  A 
great  writer  interprets  life,  which  is  infinite  in 
variety ;  Eekhoud  interprets  a  phase  of  life,  the 
only  phase  he  can  see.  But  in  his  own  limited 
range,  in  his  championing  of  the  outlaws  of  society 
and  of  Campine  peasants,  he  is  an  acknowledged 
master. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  his  conception  of 
the  Campine  peasant  is  strictly  true  to  life ;  it  is 
hardly  likely  that  a  whole  race  of  agricultural 
labourers  should  be  so  violent  and  lustful  as  they 
are  in  Eekhoud's  showing.  The  fact  that  all  the 
characters  he  is  in  sympathy  with  are  fleshy  ("gars 
charnus,"  **  plantureuses  dimes,"  "  seins  volumi- 
neux,"  "bras  muscles,"  "hanches  de  taure" — such 
expressions  recur  ad  nauseam)  need  not  be  charged 
against  him ;  the  men  and  woman  in  the  paintings 
of  Rubens  and  Jordaens  are  just  as  fleshy.  It  is 
Eekhoud's  generalisation  of  character  which  pro- 
vokes protest. 

In  his  wonderful  tales  of  vagabonds,  criminals, 
io6 


Georges  Eekhoud 

pariahs,  soldiers,  tramps,  and  beggars,  Eekhoud 
can  be  compared  only  with  Gorky.  Probably 
Gorky's  vagabonds  are  more  true  to  life,  for,  after 
all,  Eekhoud  is  an  author  who  has  specialised  in 
such  people — he  is  not  and  cannot  be  one  of  them. 
In  other  words,  his  conception  of  the  unclassed  is 
an  artist's  conception,  one  that  he  has  dreamed 
himself  into,  and  in  which  he  believes  passionately, 
but  which  is  nevertheless  a  dream.  He  sees  the 
picturesque  exterior,  rags  and  dirt  and  all ;  and 
in  his  anti-social  fervour  (which  is  an  attitude, 
sincere  no  doubt,  but  still  an  attitude)  he  uses  the 
vagabond  as  an  object  lesson. 

On  the  whole,  Georges  Eekhoud  must  be  con- 
sidered as  a  man  of  genius  who  has  lost  control 
of  his  genius.  He  has  not  fulfilled  the  promise 
of  Les  Kermesses  and  Kees  Doorik.  He  should 
have  given  us  a  stage  of  men,  each  distinct  from 
the  other ;  he  should  have  schooled  himself  into 
a  Shakespearean  variety ;  but  he  has  cloistered 
himself  with  the  abnormal  and  the  horrible,  he 
has  made  himself  the  Belgian  Webster,  become 
a  glittering  and  flattering  mirror  of  violence  and 
perversity. 


107 


I 


CHAPTER   V 

fiMILE    VERHAEREN 

Of  all  the  men  whom  the  war  has  forced  into 
the  forefront  of  public  interest,  there  is  none 
who  deserves  his  accretion  of  fame  more  than 
Emile  Verhaeren.  But  the  war  has  not  estab- 
lished, it  has  only  widened,  his  reputation.  Even 
in  England,  the  last  stronghold  of  intellectual 
apathy,  he  has  been  known  to  poetry-lovers  for 
the  last  twenty  years.  He  has  been  acclaimed 
in  far-away  Japan ;  one  of  his  books  {Images 
Japonaises)  was  published  in  Tokio  in  1900. 
The  one  book  of  travel-pictures  he  has  written 
{^Espana  Negra,  translated  by  Dario  de  Regoyos, 
Barcelona,  1899)  can  to  this  day  only  be  had  in 
Spanish.  In  Russia  he  has  been  extensively 
translated,  and  he  is  in  that  country  regarded  as 
the  great  iconoclast  of  modern  poetry  who,  more 
than  Nietzsche,  more  than  Maeterlinck,  has  opened 

the  avenues  of  literature  to  the  doctrines  of  power 

108 


6mile  Verhaeren 

and  of  the  epic  grandeur  of  everyday  life.  But 
the  country  in  which  he  has  had  the  greatest 
influence  is  Germany.  The  Germans,  indeed,  do 
not  conceal  the  fact  that  they  regard  him  as  a 
German  poet  who  by  accident  writes  in  French. 
He  is  a  native  of  Flanders,  and  Flanders  is 
German,  for  the  Flemings  are  a  German  race ; 
therefore  Verhaeren  is  a  German  poet.  They 
have  translated  him ;  they  have  written  books 
about  him ;  they  have  organised  lecturing  tours 
for  him  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
German  Empire,  and  everywhere  given  him  looo 
marks  a  lecture ;  they  have  fdted,  applauded,  in- 
terpreted, and — annexed  him.  And  when  they 
came  to  Brussels,  they  paid  him  the  supreme 
compliment  of  bringing  his  name  with  them  on 
the  black  list  of  proposed  hostages.  They  would 
have  shown  their  further  appreciation  of  his  great- 
ness by  shooting  him  like  a  dog.  Not  finding 
him  at  Brussels,  they  are  said  to  have  destroyed 
his  cottage  near  Mons,  with  its  priceless  docu- 
ments and  art  treasures,  the  collections  of  a  life- 
time.     However,    Verhaeren    is    at   this    moment 

busy   at    a    new    book.    La    Belgique    Sanglante 

109 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

(Belgium's    Agony),   which    is    not    likely   to    be 
welcome  to  his  thousands  of  German  admirers. 

Nevertheless,  the  Germans  are  not  altogether 
wrong  in  emphasizing  the  Germanic  element  in 
Verhaeren's  work.  None  of  the  Flemish  writers 
is  more  German  and  less  French  than  he.  In 
him  the  qualities  of  his  race  are  sharply  accentu- 
ated ;  and  his  very  appearance  (with  his  bony 
face  and  huge,  drooping  moustaches)  is  that  of 
one  of  the  Goths  who  sacked  Rome.  The  racial 
characteristics  of  the  Flemings  are  identical  with 
those  of  the  Germans ;  a  certain  heaviness  in 
thought  and  expression,  a  marked  lack  of  the 
sense  of  humour,  an  imperturbable  and  obstinate 
conceit.  The  prevailing  characteristic  in  either 
case  is  that  of  violence — a  violence  of  habit  which 
runs  to  waste  in  the  drunkenness  and  gluttony 
we  see  unashamedly  pictured  in  Flemish  genre- 
pictures,  a  violence  of  expression  which  in  litera- 
ture shapes  itself  according  to  the  mind  of  the 
writer  into  a  fibrous  strength  or  a  flabby  coarse- 
ness. **  The  Flemings  are  brutal,"  Verhaeren  will 
say  in  the  emphasis  of  his  conversation ;  and  the 

merest  acquaintance  with  Flemish  life  or  literature 

no 


I 


jfemile  Verhaeren 

proves  him  to  be  right — the  Flemings  are  brutal 
in  the  same  degree  as  their  near  kinsmen  the 
Prussians  are  cruel.  We  must  expect,  then,  to 
find  in  Flemish  literature  what  we  find  in  Flemish 
painting — brutality  and  violence.  This  is  not  to 
be  understood  as  unqualified  censure — all  expres- 
sions of  praise  or  blame  are  relative,  and  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  robust  criticism  violence 
in  literature  is  merely  a  criterion  of  strength. 
Nietzsche's  blonde  beast  must  be  violent ;  the 
superman  must  be  violent.  At  all  events,  a  great 
deal  of  recent  German  criticism  has  laboured 
this  point;  and  it  is  not  therefore  surprising  that 
the  Germans  should  have  pounced  on  Verhaeren 
and  annexed  him  as  a  German  superman,  as  one 
whose  writings  are  full  of  German  vigour,  though 
the  language  in  which  he  writes  is  the  language 
of  mental  poison  and  physical  degeneracy. 

It  is  no  secret  that  the  fiamingants  look  upon 
those  Flemings  who  write  in  French  as  renegades, 
as  traitors  to  the  national  cause.  To  many  of  their 
countrymen,  therefore,  Maeterlinck  and  Verhaeren 
are  traitors.     This  is  not  the  place  to  dilate  upon 

the  tragic  strife  between  party  and  party  in  Belgium 

III 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

— a  strife  which  would  be  better  called  a  class- 
war,  a  foolish  class-war  which  may  yet  cause 
untold  mischief  even  when  the  Germans  are  driven 
beyond  the  Rhine.  But  the  existence  and  the 
savagery  of  this  race-warfare  must  be  recognised 
before  one  can  get  a  clear  idea  of  Belgian  litera- 
ture. It  would  be  ridiculous  in  the  extreme  to 
regard  Maeterlinck  and  Verhaeren  as  French 
writers ;  they  are  Flemish  writers  who  write  in 
French ;  and  to  understand  them  aright  in  their 
degree  of  importance  as  Belgian  writers  we  must 
establish  the  fact  that  they  are  champions  of 
French  culture  in  a  country  where  the  Parlia- 
mentary majority  and  the  paramount  influence  of 
the  national  Church  were,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, paving  the  way  for  an  alliance  or  a 
union  with  Germany. 

If  it  were  merely  a  question  of  literature,  one 
might  regret  that  all  the  Flemings  do  not  write 
in  Flemish.  The  Flemings  are  right  in  their 
battle-cry :  "  De  taal  is  het  volk "  (The  language 
is  the  nation,  the  language  is  the  man).  From  the 
phonetician's  point  of  view,  language  is  the  pro- 
duct of  the  organs  of  speech ;    from  the  point  of 

112 


!^mile  Verhaeren 

view  of  the  historian  of  literature,  language  is  the 
product  of  the  blood  and  the  heart  and  the  mind. 
Just  as  individuals  speak  with  the  rhythms  of 
their  individuality — the  violent  man  with  violent 
emphasis,  the  gentle  man  with  a  gentle  lisp  or 
drawl — so  nations  mould  their  language  into  an 
expression  of  their  national  idiosyncrasies.  The 
Danes,  for  instance,  an  aesthetic  and  indolent  race, 
have  swallowed  nearly  all  their  consonants  and 
effeminised  the  virile  old  Norse  tongue  of  their 
ancient  sagas  into  a  language  of  faintly  breathed 
vowels,  into  a  language  without  a  backbone ;  the 
practical  English  have  eliminated  the  superfluities 
of  grammar  to  the  same  extent  as  the  scientifically- 
minded  and  theorising  Germans  have  kept  theirs 
intact ;  the  French  have  refined  and  clarified  their 
language  to  the  very  measure  of  their  own  super- 
refinement  and  logical  clearness  of  thought ;  and 
the  Flemings  (like  the  Germans)  have  preserved 
the  clashing  consonants  and  the  uncouth  gutturals, 
the  resonant  vowels  and  the  voluminous  verbs  of 
their  ancient  Saxon  speech,  so  that  it  is  to  this 
day  a  language  that  rings  with  the  pristine  vigour 

of  broad-limbed   and  muscular  men ;    a  language 

113  H 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

sated  with  violence,  it  is  true,  but  with  the  vio- 
lence of  virility.  When  robust,  vehement  men, 
therefore,  like  Maeterlinck  or  Verhaeren,  express 
themselves  in  delicate  French  they  run  the  risk 
of  losing  a  great  part  of  their  force. 

When  the  ponderous  thought  of  a  Maeterlinck 
or  the  onrushing  vehemence  of  a  Verhaeren  is 
confined  in  the  delicate  meshes  of  the  French 
sentence  it  often  seems  as  though  the  envelope 
were  overweighted,  as  though  the  bag  were  bulg- 
ing. Maeterlinck,  at  all  events,  reads  noticeably 
better  in  an  English  or  German  translation  than 
in  the  original,  and  the  unctuous  style  of  his 
essays,  which  seems  as  though  some  corpulent 
priest  were  being  borne  along  in  a  sedan  chair, 
bestowing  blessings,  as  he  passes,  on  kneeling 
crowds,  would  not  have  been  possible  in  Flemish. 
But  there  is  another  feature  of  the  Flemish 
character  besides  strength ;  this  is,  its  inherent 
chiaroscuro^  the  half-lights  of  its  mysticism,  the 
colouring  gloomed  by  shadow  which  is  the  secret 
of  Rembrandt's  pictures.  Maeterlinck,  who  is 
pre-eminently  a  mystic,  has  finely  illuminated  this 

trait  of  Flemish  in  the  preface  to  his  translation 

114 


Emile  Verhaeren 

of  Ruysbroeck ;    in  Flemish,  he  says,  *'the  words 

are   really   lamps   behind    the    ideas,    whereas    in 

French   the   ideas   have   to   light  up   the   words." 

Maeterlinck   and    Verhaeren,   then,   have  certainly 

lost  strength  and  the  fascination  of  the  half-lights 

they   might   have   had    in   their    native   language. 

Great   as   they   are   in   French,   they   would    have 

been  still  greater  in  Flemish.     But  at  this  period 

of    history    there   is    something   far   greater    than 

national  literature ;  there  is  the  question  of  national 

life   itself,    and   the    service    which    such    men    as 

Maeterlinck  and  Verhaeren  by  writing  in  French 

have   rendered    to   the  cause    of  the  national  life 

of  Belgium,    which   can   only  exist  as  a  bulwark 

against  Germany,  has  been  inestimable. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Verhaeren  himself  never 

took  the  trouble  to  make  himself  master  of  Flemish. 

When  he  was  a  child,  French  was  always  spoken 

in  the  house,  although  his  parents  were  Flemings ; 

and  he  only  learned  Flemish  when  he  went  to  the 

elementary  school  of  his  native  village,  St.  Amand 

(on   the    Scheldt    near   Antwerp).     He    might,    of 

course,   if  he  had  been  a  Flemish  patriot  in  the 

meaning  of  the  flamingants,  have    been   at  pains 

115 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

to    perfect    himself    in   the   language    which   was 
spoken   around  him ;    but,    according   to   his   own 
account,    it   would    always    have   been    a    foreign 
language  to  him.     And  yet,  according  to  authori- 
tative French  critics,  his  French  has  never  been 
pure.     His  French,  some  of  them  seem  to  think, 
is  a   translated   Flemish.     To  give   one   example, 
he  finds  it  possible  to  write :   Les  toujours  mimes 
jours,    meaning    les  jours    qui  sont    toujours    les 
mimics.      This   phrase   is    certainly    Germanic    in 
structure ;    in    German,   for   instance,   it   would    be 
die  immer  gleichen    Tage.     But  Verhaeren,  in  his 
conversation,  will  say  that  such  ungrammatical  ex- 
pressions are  not  imitations  of  the  Flemish  idiom 
at  all,  but  absolutely  necessary  to  him  in  order  to 
render  the  sudden  impulse  of  his  feeling :  his  dis- 
tortions  of   grammar   have    been   intentional ;   his 
Verhaerenese  is  as  deliberate   as  Carlylese.     Les 
jours  qui  sont  toujours  les   memes  is  a  circuitous 
phrase  in  comparison  with  the  dramatic  vigour  of 
les  toujours    mimes  jours.      French    purists    will 
never    admit   the   right   of   a    "  barbarian "    (Ver- 
haeren has  repeatedly  been  called  a  barbarian  by 

French  critics)  to  use  an  adverb  as  an  adjective ; 

ii6 


I^mile  Verhaeren 

but  he  may  possibly  succeed  in  forcing  his  inno- 
vations on  them  in  various  instances  of  his  word- 
coining.  Here  again  he  is  as  daring  and  as 
picturesque  as  Carlyle ;  and  some  of  the  words 
he  has  coined  (we  must  remember  that  few  French 
writers  dare  to  coin  words)  have  already  been 
accepted :  for  instance,  les  villes  tentaculaires 
(tentacular  towns). 

In  Les  Tendr esses  Premieres  Verhaeren  has 
related  the  story  of  his  boyhood  at  Saint- 
Amand.  His  father  was  a  retired  draper  from 
Brussels.  The  house  in  which  he  was  born 
(in  1855)  was  on  the  road  from  Termonde  to 
Antwerp,  and  from  the  windows  the  ships  could 
be  seen  passing  along  the  river — "  the  massive 
and  lethargic  Scheldt" — that  was  always  at  the 
back  of  the  boy's  thoughts.  It  was  an  old-world 
house,  with  oak  and  mahogany  furniture.  From 
the  windows  of  the  attic  Termonde  was  visible — 
Termonde,  which  seemed  the  end  of  the  world. 
Behind  the  house  was  an  orchard  full  of  old  pear- 
trees,  which  in  springtime  looked  like  a  flock  of 
white  birds  trailing  their  wings  in  the  sun.     And 

the  great  flower-garden ! — Verhaeren's  description 

117 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

makes  it  seem  a  wonderful  place,  a  garden  with 
golden  beeches  and  silver  aspens,  and  with  great 
cocks  cut  in  the  holly  and  yew  of  the  hedges.  Over 
the  lawn  roamed  two  Numidian  cranes,  and  three 
crazy  peacocks  whose  spread  tails  were  like  the 
sunset.  To  the  poet-child  the  garden  and  the 
strange  birds  were  a  dream  of  Paradise,  a  burn- 
ing fever  of  beauty  as  long  as  the  summer  lasted. 
His  companions  were  the  barefoot  village  urchins, 
with  whom,  in  the  autumn,  he  went  robbing  the 
orchards.  And  they  went  swimming  in  the  hidden 
creeks  of  the  Scheldt,  where  the  grass  grew  as 
high  as  a  wall,  and  after  the  swim  they  would  dry 
themselves  on  the  dike's  velvet  flanks.  And  little 
Verhaeren  was  on  familiar  terms  with  all  the  petty 
tradesmen  of  the  place  —  the  bellringer,  the  car- 
penter, the  blacksmith,  and  the  other  artisans  whose 
handicraft  he  was  to  magnify  in  the  grandiose  sym- 
bols of  Les  Villages  Illusoires. 

Near  the  house  was  his  uncle's  oilworks.  The 
intention  was  that  in  due  course  Verhaeren  should 
succeed  his  uncle.  But,  his  schooling  at  Ghent 
completed,  the  young  man  showed  no  inclination  to 

be  an  oil-manufacturer,  and  he  was  sent  to  Louvain 

ii8 


Emile  Verhaeren 

to  study  jurisprudence.  In  1881  he  passed  his 
final,  and  set  up  as  a  barrister  at  Brussels.  But 
Edmond  Picard,  for  whom  he  worked  as  a  stagi- 
aire,  saw  that  he  would  never  make  a  lawyer  and 
advised  him  to  find  something  more  congenial. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was  already  clear  to  Ver- 
haeren that  he  could  be  nothing  but  a  man  of 
letters ;  and  after  the  publication  of  Les  Flam- 
andes  {^\^m\^  Women)  in  1883  the  way  was  clear. 
The  book  was  hailed  with  abuse  (one  critic  said 
the  young  poet  had  "burst  like  an  abscess,"  and 
another  called  him  the  "Raphael  of  dirt"),  but 
— it  was  hailed,  and  henceforth  Verhaeren  had  a 
name. 

Verhaeren  himself  has  in  his  riper  years  more 
or  less  disowned  this  first  book  of  his.  He  is 
wrong ;  and  those  critics  of  his  are  wrong  who 
regard  it  as  a  mere  collection  of  juvenilia.  It 
has  faults ;  but  they  are  only  the  faults  of  un- 
restraint, and  there  is  unrestraint  in  Verhaeren's 
ripest  work.  The  poems  are  packed  with  vigour 
— in  Verhaeren's  own  language  they  are  gorged 
with  sap,   they    are  explosions   of   energy.     The 

only  question    for  the  critic  is   whether  they  are 

119 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

not    too    pictorial.       But    Les    Flamandes    is    not 
more  a  succession  of  pictures  than  many  another 
Flemish    book    which   is   praised   as    such.      Ver- 
haeren's   idea  at    the    time    he   wrote   it   was   to 
produce  in  verse  exactly  such  pictures  as  Teniers, 
Jordaens,  and  other  Flemish  artists  had  produced 
on  canvas,  in  other  words,  genre  pictures.     Now 
in  a  picture  gallery  a  picture  is  a  picture  ;  it  need 
not   necessarily   suggest   an   idea.     And  anything 
that  can  be  seen  can  be  painted.     As  far  as  painted 
pictures  are  concerned,  there  is  little  restriction  of 
subject.     But,  say  the  critics,  if  you  write  a  word- 
picture,   the  picture  must   suggest  an  idea.     And 
you   cannot   write  word-pictures    of  anything  you 
like  :  you  must  confine  yourself  to  what  is  pleasant. 
As   for   the   first   objection,    there    is   an    idea 
behind    the   pictures   of   the   book,    the   idea   that 
the  Flemings  of  olden  times  were  a  much  more 
robust  race  than  the   Flemings  of  our  own  days. 
Verhaeren    was    already    unconsciously    occupied 
by  the   idea   of  the   superman ;    only,    instead   of 
placing    the    superman    in    the    future,    he    found 
him  in   the  past.     The   old   Flemish  artists   were 
supermen,    because    they    were    such    tremendous 

120 


!l&mile  Verhaeren 

eaters  and  drinkers,  because  they  created  master- 
pieces between  two  drinking-bouts.  (The  idea 
is  naive ;  but  Verhaeren,  it  may  be  said  at  once, 
is  essentially  naive.)  Apart  from  the  idea,  however, 
the  poems  are  rich  with  the  very  thing  that  makes 
a  poem — with  the  something  we  have  no  word  for 
and  which  the  Germans  call  Stimmung.  There 
is  a  mood  of  the  greatest  artistic  refinement  in 
some  of  the  poems  (L'Abreuvoir,  for  instance — a 
picture  of  cattle  being  watered  at  sunset),  and  even 
where  the  diction  is  coarse  to  the  last  limit  of 
decency  there  is  a  brazen  strength  in  the  raw 
images  which  lifts  the  poem  above  vulgarity.  Take 
the  sonnet : 

THE  BAKING  OF  THE  BREAD 

The  servants  for  the  Sunday  bake  the  bread, 

Of  the  best  milk  and  wheat ;  their  brows  bent  low, 

And  elbows  bared  and  at  an  angle,  shed 

The  sweat  with  which  they  steam  into  the  dough. 

Yea,  they  are  wet  all  over  in  their  haste ; 
The  sweat  is  running  down  their  dangling  breasts ; 
Their  two  huge  fists  are  wading  in  the  paste, 
And  moulding  it  in  rounds  like  flesh  of  breasts. 

121 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

The  bakehouse  heats  its  crimson  flames  outside  ; 
And  from  a  plank's  end,  two  by  two,  they  slide 
The  soft,  white  loaves  into  their  proper  places. 

But  when  the  door  is  opened,  like  a  pack 

Of  hot,  red  hounds,  the  flames  force  out  a  track, 

And,  roaring,  leap  to  bite  the  wenches'  faces. 

Or  that  of  the  pigs  running  through  the 
orchard  close,  and  filling  it  with  their  grunting's 
hollow  din,  while  their  milky  paps  dangle  in  rows 
and  trail  along  the  grass  ;  rooting  in  the  midden 
and  sniffing  the  simmering  liquid  that  makes  their 
skins  "  dither  and  glimmer  like  a  crimson  rose." 
.  .  .  Such  a  sonnet  as  this  may  be  called  "un- 
pleasant "  by  squeamish  critics ;  but  it  might  well 
be  justified  as  a  Flemish  idyll — an  idyll  of  pigs. 
And  after  all,  these  fleshy  swine  bathed  in  burning 
sunshine  are  not  more  provocative  than  some  of 
the  glaring  canvases  of  Rubens — pigs  or  Greek 
goddesses,  it  is  all  a  matter  of  flesh  in  the  end. 

There  is  not  a  trace  of  coarseness  in  Les 
Moines  (1886).  Here  the  exaltation  is  ascetic. 
After  the  "explosion  of  life"  that  Les  Flamandes 
had   been   for   Verhaeren,    a    reaction    had   come. 

Not  exactly  a  religious   reaction  (the   faith   of  his 

122 


!6mile  Verhaeren 

fathers  had  gone  for  ever),  but  a  return  to  the 
romance  of  the  ritual,  to  the  symbols  of  mystic 
fervour. 

In  Les  Moines  actual  experiences  of  monastery 
life  are  drawn  upon :  the  poet  had  spent  three 
weeks  in  the  monastery  of  Forges,  near  Chimay. 
He  shared  the  life  of  the  monks,  and  it  was  hoped 
in  the  monastery  itself  that  he  would  remain. 
But  all  the  evidence  available  shows  that  Ver- 
haeren, having  collected  his  stock  of  impressions, 
was  very  glad  to  get  away  to  more  substantial 
fare  than  the  monks'  table  afforded ;  and  there  is 
further  evidence  that  he  made  up  for  lost  feasts 
by  very  copious  eating.  The  result  was  a  ruined 
digestion,  which  is  perhaps  the  main  cause  of  the 
appalling  pessimism  which  blackens  the  pages  of 
the  next  collections  of  his  poems. 

The  German  theorists  have  taken  up  the  poet's 

legend   here,    and   from   the    poems   of    his   three 

books  Les  Soirs  (1887),  Les  Debacles  (1888),  and 

Les  Flambeaux  Noirs  ( 1 890),  made  out  a  case  for 

what   they   call    his    "pathological    period."      He 

was  evidently  ill  for   a   long   time ;    but   one  may 

doubt  whether   the   exasperated   despair   and   the 

123 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

pretence  of  madness  which  make  the  atmosphere 
of  the  books  have  more  than  a  literary  genuine- 
ness. The  fact  is  that  this  kind  of  thing  was 
the  fashion  at  the  time.  One  has  only  to  read 
the  reviews  of  those  days  to  find  a  pessimism  and 
maladies  quite  as  excruciating  as  those  of  Ver- 
haeren.  A  notorious  example  is  Maeterlinck's 
Serves  Chaudes^  a  most  dismal  display  of  dirges 
by  a  man  who  perhaps  never  felt  ill  in  his  life, 
but  who  had  great  business  ability  and  the  knack 
of  supplying  the  demand.  Georges  Rodenbach 
was  another  sick  man  who  popularised  poetic 
disease.  The  Satanism  of  Giraud  and  Gilkin 
was  another  phase  of  the  fashion.  The  truth  is, 
Schopenhauer  was  in  the  air.  .  .  .  Some  of  the 
poets  had  actually  read  him.  ...  It  was  the  fin- 
desiecleism.  of  which  we  have  read  so  much.  In 
the  March- April  number  of  La  Wallonie  in  1891 
appeared  a  kind  of  prose-poem  by  Verhaeren, 
which  contains  the  essence  of  all  the  "  patho- 
logical" poems: 

"I  had  arrived  at  such  a  susceptibility,"  runs  the 
sketch,  "  that  I  would  rush  home  like  one  demented, 
shut   myself  up   in  my   room,    thrust   my   fists   into   my 

124 


I 


Emile  Verhaeren 

eyes  and  remain  a  long  time  in  this  posture,  to  drive 
more  and  more  darkness  into  my  eyeballs.  I  worked 
myself  into  sadnesses  of  ink,  into  rages  of  gimlets 
through  a  thousand  metals;  not  only  my  eyes,  but  my 
ears,  my  sense  of  touch,  of  taste,  my  whole  body,  was 
torture  to  me :  I  felt  acids  under  my  tongue  and  thorns 
under  my  nails.   .   .   . 

"  I  did  not  dare  to  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror. 
Was  I  not  myself  infected  with  that  universal  disease 
which  exasperated  me  in  others  ?  My  room,  happily, 
was  old  and  quite  dislocated  with  departed  memories, 
rather  a  thought  than  a  thing  to  me.  I  only  contem- 
plated it  through  some  dream  or  other  dreamt  in  such 
and  such  a  corner.  .  .  .  My  room  was  thus  a  precious 
retreat,  in  which  I  cloistered  myself  for  days  together.  .  .  . 

"  One  evening,  a  song  ascending  from  the  deserted 
street,  so  desperately  incoherent  and  void  of  sense  that 
any  dream-spider  whatsoever  might  have  woven  its  web 
in  the  threads  of  it,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  look  out,  all 
of  a  sudden.  Fever  was  whipping  my  pulse ;  I  felt 
myself  burning,  tell  me,  towards  what  madness  ?  Below, 
under  an  oblique  slash  of  gas,  near  a  gas-lamp,  a  pale 
face,  with  a  hole  of  blood  for  a  mouth,  was  groaning  up 
to  me  notes  broken  like  its  teeth.  And  in  that  face 
in  the  air  I  saw  distinctly  two  holes  on  each  side  of 
the  nose,  two  holes  that  had  been  stopped,  as  though 
hastily  mended.  The  blind  man  stared  without  seeing 
me,  with  his  head  obstinately  lifted  towards  the  alms 
that  might  rain  on  him  from  the  windows,  a  head  lament- 
ably stretched  at  the  top  of  his  neck,  his  head,  oh  !  this 

125 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

head  of  distress  and  misery  as  old  as  a  century  and 
beaten  with  wind  and  scraped  with  rain  and  as  though 
of  stone  against  death. 

"  Temptation  suddenly  scorched  me  with  its  red  iron. 
I  ran  towards  my  dressing-table :  '  This  man,  he  at 
least  no  longer  felt  all  the  horror  of  his  life,  he  saw  it 
no  longer,  all  the  hideousness  of  his  body,  all  the 
monstrous  ugliness  of  the  world.'  And  without  reflect- 
ing, without  the  courage  to  do  it,  in  an  extreme  fit  of 
exasperation  I  seized  my  scissors  and  more  immediately 
still,  frantic,  with  I  know  not  what  pride  in  myself,  I 
gouged  my  eyes  out  like  two  marbles  in  front  of  the 
mirror." 

The    extravagance    of    this    nightmare    is    so 

obvious  that  there  can  be  no  question  of  taking  it 

seriously  as  an   indication  of  Verhaeren's  physical 

and  mental  state  at  the  time  he  wrote  it.     It  has 

not  the  sincerity  of  certain   prose  poems  inspired 

by   opium.      It   is   simply   a   flaunting   display   of 

"  spleen,"  that  very  artificial   condition   of  mental 

distress  which  the  poets  of  the  hour  had  distilled 

from  a    poem    by    Baudelaire.     In   the   poems   of 

Verhaeren's  trilogy,  however,  there  is  a  sustained 

coherence  of  the  impression  which  lends  an  air  of 

reality  to  the  philosophical  structure  which  critics 

have  reared  by  taking  a  passage  here  and  there. 

126 


Emile  Verhaeren 

Stefan  Zweig's  analysis  of  the  poet's  longing  for 
death  and  approach  to  madness  is  itself  a  poem. 
The  German  critic  rightly  points  out  the  leitmotiv 
of  the  trilogy:  the  will  to  suffer  (**  To  suffer  for 
oneself,  alone,  but  voluntarily").  But  this  very 
insistence  of  the  will  betokens  vigorous  intel- 
lectual activity :  here  is  none  of  the  apathy  of 
disease.  The  poet  carefully  notes  all  the  phases 
of  his  exasperation,  notes  them  with  inspired 
imagery,  in  rhythms  new  to  French  poetry : 

"  Mes  jours  toujours  plus  lourds  s'en  vont  roulant  leur 
cours." 

He  whips  himself  into  an  illusion  of  madness, 
watches  the  corpse  of  his  reason  floating  down 
the  Thames,  and  cries  out:  "When  shall  I  have 
the  atrocious  joy  of  seeing  madness  attacking  my 
brain  nerve  by  nerve  ?  " 

"  He  has  measured  all  the  deeps  of  the  spirit,"  Stefan 
Zweig  interprets,  "  but  all  the  words  of  religion  and 
science,  all  the  elixirs  of  life,  have  been  powerless  to 
save  him  from  this  torment.  He  knows  all  sensations, 
and  there  was  no  greatness  in  any  of  them ;  all  have 
goaded  him,  none  have  exalted  or  raised  him  above 
himself.     And    now   his   heart   yearns   ardently   for   this 

127 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

last  sensation  of  all.  He  is  tired  of  waiting  for  it,  he 
will  go  out  to  meet  it  ;  'I  will  go  out  to  meet  madness 
and  its  suns.'  He  hails  madness  as  though  it  were  a 
saint,  as  though  it  were  his  saviour;  he  forces  himself 
*  to  believe  in  madness  as  in  a  faith,'  .  .  .  Here  the 
highest  state  of  despair  is  reached  ;  the  black  banner  of 
death  and  the  red  one  of  madness  are  intertwined.  With 
unprecedented  logic  Verhaeren,  despairing  of  an  inter- 
pretation of  life,  has  exalted  senselessness  as  the  sense 
of  the  universe.  But  it  is  just  in  this  complete  inversion 
that  victory  lies.  ...  It  is  just  at  the  moment  when 
the  sick  man  cries  out  like  one  being  crucified,  '  I  am  he 
who  is  immensely  lost,'  that  he  is  redeemed  and  de- 
livered. Just  this  idea,  '  to  violate  one's  disease  every 
hour,  to  curse  it,  and  to  love  it,'  is  nothing  else  than 
the  idea  of  his  life,  to  master  all  resistance  by  a  bound- 
less love,  '  to  love  fate  in  its  very  rage '  ;  never  to  shun 
a  thing,  but  to  take  everything  and  enhance  it  till  it 
becomes  creative,  ecstatic  pleasure;  to  welcome  every 
suffering  with  fresh  readiness." 

It  may  well  be  that  Verhaeren  in  this  trilogy 

has  created  the  classic  epic  of  disease.     This  may 

still  be  true  even  if  it  should  be  proved  by  some 

future   biographer    that   Verhaeren    never    had   a 

pathological  period   except   on    paper.     Certain    it 

is  that  individual  poems  are  magnificent  in  their 

metallic    imagery,   their    raw   colouring    (as    with 

128 


£mile  Verhaeren 

great  dabs  of  red  and  black  and  gold),  the  daring 
onomatopoeia  of  their  rhymes.  What  a  landscape 
this  tortured  visionary,  this  "sick  wolf,"  unrolls! 

"  It  can  hardly  be  called  a  landscape  of  earth,"  says 
Zweig.  "  It  is  a  grandiose  landscape  of  dreams,  horizons 
as  though  on  some  other  planet,  as  though  in  one  of 
those  worlds  which  have  cooled  into  moons,  where  the 
warmth  of  the  earth  has  died  out  and  an  icy  calm  chills 
the  vast  far-seen  spaces  deserted  of  man.  .  .  .  Here  all 
the  colours  of  life  are  burnt  out,  not  a  star  shines  down 
from  this  steel-grey  metallic  sky  ;  only  a  cruel,  freezing 
moon  glides  across  it  from  time  to  time  like  a  sardonic 
smile.  These  are  books  of  pallid  nights,  with  the  im- 
mense wings  of  clouds  closing  the  sky,  over  a  narrowed 
world,  in  which  the  hours  cling  to  things  like  heavy  and 
clammy  chains.  They  are  works  filled  with  a  glacial 
cold.  '  It  is  freezing  .  .  . '  one  poem  begins,  and  this 
shuddering  tone  pierces  like  the  howling  of  dogs  ever 
and  ever  again  over  an  illimitable  plain.  The  sun  is 
dead,  dead  are  the  flowers,  the  trees;  the  very  marshes 
are  frozen  in  these  white  midnights  :  '  And  the  heart  is 
gripped  by  the  fear  of  an  immortal  winter  and  of  a  great 
God  of  a  sudden,  glacial  and  splendid.' " 

It  is  of  particular  interest  to   us   in    England 

that  a  great  part  of  these  three  books  was  written 

in  London,  where  Verhaeren  spent  some  time  in 

great  loneliness,  knowing  no  English,  and  collect- 

129  I 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

ing  impressions,  not  only  for  the  trilogy  of  disease, 
but  also  for  the  greater  trilogy  of  the  tentacular 
city  which  was  to  come  later.  One  of  his  favour- 
ite occupations  in  London  is  said  to  have  been 
travelling  to  problematic  destinations  on  the  under- 
ground :  this,  no  doubt,  was  as  near  as  he  could 
get  to  Hell. 

In  **  Les  Villes,"  one  of  the  poems  of  Les  Flam- 
beaux Noirs,  the  poet,  after  describing  London, 
exclaims :  "  Here  is  the  City  in  gold  of  red 
alchemies,  where  thou  canst  melt  thy  mind  in  a 
new  crucible." 

This  poem  is  a  first  expression  of  the  new  ideas 
which  were  to  end  his  pessimistic  phase.  Verhaeren 
is  by  his  very  nature  an  optimist ;  it  is  a  need  of 
his  nature  to  be  able  to  believe  and  to  worship 
with  fervour.  His  break  with  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith  caused  him  great  suffering.  There  was  an- 
other source  of  his  malady.  He  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  country,  he  had  been  reared  on  the  open 
air.  But  when  he  settled  in  Brussels,  the  life  of 
the  city  began  to  tell  on  him.  He  had  to  adapt 
his  constitution  to  town  life,  and  for  a  long  time 

his  constitution  refused  to  be  adapted.     Then  when 

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Emile  Verhaeren 

he  fled  from  Belgium  altogether  to  see  the  great 
cities  of  the  world,  he  felt  like  a  child  astray  in 
the  wilderness.  Even  to-day  there  is  something 
of  an  astonished  child  about  Verhaeren.  Every- 
thing is  wonderful  to  him  ;  these  streets  of  London, 
for  instance,  through  which  we  pass  mechanically, 
are  to  him  colossal  manifestations  of  human  power ; 
motor-cars,  shops,  factories,  canals,  museums,  the 
passing  of  crowds — "poured  as  from  a  bent  full 
bottle's  neck  " — railway  stations,  docks,  ships — 
what  ordinary,  meaningless  words  these  are  to  us, 
and  to  him  what  storehouses  of  romance!  But  in 
the  days  of  his  illness  he  walked  about  among  all 
this  romance  in  absolute  bewilderment.  It  was  too 
immense  for  him  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  it. 

It  is  perhaps  not  easy  for  the  normal  town- 
dweller  to  understand  why  Verhaeren  should  have 
fallen  a  prey  to  mental  exasperation  when  he  was 
plunged  into  the  conditions  of  modern  cities.  And 
yet,  if  we  were  to  think  of  it,  what  an  awful  thing  a 
great  city  is !  A  modern  city  is  something  absolutely 
terrible !  Probably  most  of  us  are  awed  and  over- 
whelmed by  Mont  Blanc ;  but  if  dimensions  are 

measured  by  terms  of  power,  what  a  pigmy  Mont 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Blanc  is!  If  we  were  suddenly  transplanted  to 
some  pathless  forest  in  Central  Africa  we  should 
be  bewildered,  overwhelmed ;  but  we  walk  through 
London  without  feeling  in  the  least  upset.  Ver- 
haeren,  however,  had  to  become  conscious  of  the 
horror  of  great  cities  in  order  that  he  might  inter- 
pret them  to  coming  generations,  in  order  that  he 
might  make  others  in  their  turn  conscious  of  the 
magnitude  and  the  sublimity  of  modern  conditions. 

For  we  have  got  to  become  conscious  of  them. 
We  do  not  sufficiently  realise  that  ideals  are  chang- 
ing, that  the  epic  of  the  past  cannot  be  the  epic 
of  the  future.  We  need  not  go  as  far  as  the  Italian 
futurists  who  in  their  zeal  for  the  future  demand 
the  utter  destruction  in  men's  memory  of  the  past, 
who  demand  that  the  greasy  leprous  palaces  of 
Venice  shall  be  razed  to  the  ground — we  do  not 
need  to  deny  the  past,  but  we  do  need  to  see 
that  the  pace  of  change  is  in  our  days  so  rapid 
that  in  one  generation  the  face  of  the  universe 
is  transformed.  Verhaeren's  task  has  been  to  teach 
us  to  look  at  the  change  without  fear,  knowing 
that  whatever  mechanical  inventions  accelerate  the 

pace  of  living  the  human  organisation  can  adapt 

132 


Emile  Verhaeren 

itself  infinitely,  and  that  if  the  world  changes,  man 
will  change  too.  All  is  well ;  because  it  cannot 
be  otherwise. 

But  Verhaeren  is  first  and  foremost  a  poet,  and 
one  might  think :  it  is  well  to  be  reconciled  with 
mechanical    inventions,   to  believe    that    "  factories 
thundering  in  the   unseizable  rhythm  of  petrified 
exertion,"  workshops,  motor-cars,  and  all  these  in- 
expressibly ugly  things  are  necessary  in  the  chain 
of  human  progress,  but  by  all  the  teaching  of  the 
ancients  and  moderns,  what  is  to  become  of  poetry  ? 
Poetry  is  the  expression  of  beauty  ;  and  therefore 
ugly  things  cannot  be  expressed  in  poetry.     But 
modern   inventions   and   the   results   of   them   are 
ugly,  cries  out  the  aesthete :  they  are  impossible  in 
poetry.     For  poetry  we  must  go  to  the  classical, 
the  romantic,   the   idyllic  past.     The   falseness   of 
this  attitude   Verhaeren   by   his   example   proved. 
He  too  had  turned  to  the  past  for  the  inspiration 
of  his  Flemish  genre-scenes  and  the  pathetic  figures 
of  his  monks.     But  in  the  cosmopolitan  searchings 
which  followed  he  had  learned  to  look  at  the  world 
with  different  eyes.     He  had  discovered  new  ideals 

of  beauty.     The  beauty  of  a  thing  does  not  lie  in 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

its  outward  form,  but  in  the  power  it  expresses. 
For  Verhaeren,  henceforth,  the  motive  spring  of 
poetry  is  energy.  Poets  had  sought  harmony ; 
Verhaeren  now  seeks  energy.  To  the  old  poets 
a  roaring  factory  was  repulsive,  grotesque ;  to 
Verhaeren  the  panting  in  multiplied  effort  of  the 
machinery  has  the  rhythms  of  stupendous  poetry. 
Viewed  from  this  standpoint,  all  that  had  bewildered 
him  in  the  modern  City  becomes  intelligible,  and 
inevitable  in  the  progress  of  man  to  godhead ;  he 
sees  that  a  modern  poet  must  not  only  be  recon- 
ciled with  modern  conditions  but  must  discover 
their  epic  grandeur,  and  hail  mechanical  inventions 
as  the  poets  of  old  hailed  great  victories.  Follow- 
ing unconsciously  in  the  track  of  Walt  Whitman 
(his  great  forerunner  whom  he  had  not  read), 
Verhaeren  now  turns  his  cosmic  pain  into  cosmic 
joy,  and  strikes  out  into  new  paths  of  poetry  which 
are  destined  to  be  the  great  highways  of  the  verse 
to  be. 

The  books  in  which  Verhaeren  sang  his  in- 
spired vision  of  the  new  city  are  Les  Campagnes 
Hallucinees  (1893)  and  Les    Villes    Tentaculaires 

(1895).     These  are,  probably,  his  most  important, 

134 


Emile  Verhaeren 

as  they  are  his  most  suggestive,  books.  Les  Cam- 
pagnes  Hallucinees,  "  the  hallucinated  countryside,*' 
describes  the  desertion  of  the  country  for  the  town. 
The  villagers  can  always  at  night  see  the  glare 
of  the  city  on  the  horizon,  and  Verhaeren  per- 
sonifies this  City  as  an  octopus  stretching  out  its 
tentacles  to  drain  the  life's  blood  of  the  country. 
It  is  a  magnificent  and  lurid  vision. 

"Cities  have  sprung  up  like  mushrooms,"  says  Stefan 
Zweig  again.  "  Millions  have  conglomerated.  But  where 
have  they  come  from  ?  From  what  sources  have  these 
immense  masses  suddenly  streamed  into  the  mighty 
reservoirs?  The  answer  is  quick  to  come.  The  heart 
of  the  city  is  fed  with  the  oozing  blood  of  the  country. 
The  country  is  impoverished.  As  though  they  were  hal- 
lucinated, the  peasants  migrate  to  where  gold  is  minted, 
to  the  town  that  in  the  evenings  flames  across  the 
horizon ;  to  where  alone  riches  lie,  and  power.  They 
march  away  with  their  carts,  to  sell  their  last  stick  of 
furniture,  their  last  rags  ;  they  march  away  with  their 
children,  to  let  them  perish  in  the  factories ;  they  march 
away  to  dip  their  hands  in  this  roaring  river  of  gold. 
The  fields  are  deserted.  Only  the  fantastic  figures  of 
idiots  stagger  along  lonely  paths ;  the  abandoned  flour- 
mills  are  empty,  and  only  turn  when  the  wind  smites 
against  them.  Fever  rises  from  the  marshes,  where  the 
water,  no  longer  gathered  into  dikes,  spreads  putrefaction 

135 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

and  pestilence.  Beggars  drag  themselves  from  door  to 
door,  with  the  country's  barrenness  reflected  in  their 
eyes ;  and  to  these  last  lingering  cultivators  come  the 
emigration  agents,  and  entice  them  to  seek  a  far-distant 
hope." 

The  villages  die.  Everything  streams  to  Oppido- 
magnum,  as  Verhaeren  calls  the  great  city.  "  All 
the  roads  lead  to  the  town,"  he  sings : 

"  This  is  the  many-tentacled  town, 
This  is  the  flaming  octopus, 
The  ossuary  of  all  of  us. 
At  the  country's  end  she  waits. 
Feeling  towards  the  old  estates. 

"  Meteoric  gas-lamps  line 
Docks  where  tufted  masts  entwine  ; 

A  river  of  pitch  and  naphtha  rolls 
By  wooden  bridges,  mortared  moles ; 
And  the  raw  whistles  of  the  ships 
Howl  with  fright  ia  the  fog  that  grips : 
With  a  red  signal  light  they  peer 
Towards  the  sea  to  which  they  steer. 
Quays  with  clashing  buffers  groan ; 
Carts  grate  o'er  the  cobble-stone  ; 
Bridges  opening  lift  a  vast 
136 


£mile  Verhaeren 

Gibbet  till  the  ships  have  passed ; 
Letters  of  brass  inscribe  the  world, 
On  roofs,  and  walls,  and  shop-fronts  curled, 
Face  to  face  in  battle  massed. 

"  Wheels  file  and  file,  the  drosky  plies, 
Trains  are  rolling,  effort  flies  ; 
And  like  a  prow  becalmed,  the  glare 
Of  gilded  stations  here  and  there  ; 
And,  from  their  platforms,  ramified 
Rails  beneath  the  city  glide, 
In  tunnels  and  in  craters,  whence 
They  storm  in  network  flashing  thin 
Out  into  hubbub,  dust  and  din. 

"  This  is  the  many-tentacled  town. 

"The  street,  with  eddies  tied  like  ropes 
Around  its  squares,  runs  out  and  gropes 
Along  the  city  up  and  down, 
And  runs  back  far  enlaced,  and  lined 
With  crowds  inextricably  twined. 
Whose  mad  feet  beat  the  flags  beneath, 
Whose  eyes  are  filled  with  hate,  whose  teeth 
Snatch  at  the  time  they  cannot  catch. 

Lust  roars  and  leaps  from  breast  to  breast. 
Whipped  to  a  rage  uproarious, 
To  a  blind  crush  of  limbs  in  quest 
Of  the  pleasure  of  gold  and  phosphorus  ; 
137 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

And  in  and  out  wan  women  fare, 
With  sexual  symbols  in  their  hair. 
The  atmosphere  of  reeking  dun 
At  times  recedes  towards  the  sun, 
As  though  a  loud  cry  called  to  Peace 
To  bid  the  deafening  noises  cease  ; 
But  all  the  City  puffs  and  blows 
With  such  a  violent  snort  and  flush, 
That  the  dying  seek  in  vain  the  hush 
Of  silence  that  eyes  need  to  close. 

"  Such  is  the  day — and  when  the  eves 
With  ebony  hammers  carve  the  skies, 
Over  the  plain  the  City  heaves 
Her  shimmer  of  colossal^  lies ; 
Her  haunting,  gilt  desires  arise  ; 
Her  radiance  to  the  stars  is  cast ; 
She  gathers  her  gas  in  golden  sheaves ; 
Her  rails  are  highways  flying  fast 
To  the  mirage  of  happiness 
That  strength  and  fortune  seem  to  bless ; 
Like  a  great  army  swell  her  walls ; 
And  all  the  smoke  she  still  sends  down 
Reaches  the  field  in  radiant  calls." 

It  is  a  terrifying  vision,  this  of  the  City  as  a 

whole ;    and    in    other    poems    Verhaeren    paints 

pictures  no  less  horrific  of  the  various  phases  of 

the  City's  activity — the  Exchange,  the  brothel,  the 

138 


Emile  Verhaeren 

bazaar,  the  music  hall,  factories  and  workshops, 
machinery,  labour.  But,  while  showing  us  things 
as  they  are,  the  poet  proclaims  their  necessity. 
The  City,  loathsome  as  some  of  its  manifestations 
are,  is  necesssary ;  for  the  City  is  progress.  The 
Country,  with  its  idylls  and  its  old-time  peace  and 
beauty,  must  die,  or  only  exist  at  a  slave's  ransom, 
for  it  is  the  foe  of  progress.  In  herself  the  City 
concentrates  energy,  "  red  strength  and  new  light," 
to  inflame  with  fever  and  fecund  fury  the  brains 
of  those  (heroes,  scholars,  artists,  apostles,  adven- 
turers) who  pierce  the  wall  of  mystery  that  glooms 
the  world,  discover  new  laws,  and  subdue  the  vast 
forces  of  life  imprisoned  in  matter. 

This — the  necessary  conquest  of  the  Country 
by  the  City — is  the  main  idea  of  Verhaeren's  riper 
work.  It  proved  a  very  fertile  idea,  and  led,  in  a 
further  series  of  famous  books  {Les  Visages  de  la 
Vie,  1 899 ;  Les  Forces  Tumultueuses,  1 902  ;  La 
Multiple  Splendeur,  1906;  Les  Rythmes  Souverains^ 
1 9 10;  Les  Blh  Mouvants,  19 12),  to  the  develop- 
ment of  various  poetic  themes — the  beauty  of 
mechanical  things,  the  gospel  of  admiration,  salva- 
tion by  ecstasy,  and  other  doctrines,  all  of  which 

139 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

have  been  patiently  tabulated  and  pigeon-holed  by 
Stefan  Zweig  (the  authorised  interpreter). 

Les  Villages  Illusoires  (1895)  is  a  part  of  the 
series  in  so  far  as  it  symbolises,  in  some  of  its 
poems,  Verhaeren's  reconciliation  with  the  world. 
But  it  is  rather  different  in  style  to  the  other  books 
— less  inspired  perhaps,  but  more  restrained  and 
more  full  of  the  matter  of  poetry  as  traditionally 
conceived.  It  is  the  only  book  of  Verhaeren's  in 
which  he  is  a  symbolist ;  but  his  symbols  are  so 
clear  and  broadly  outlined  that  they  need  no  inter- 
pretation. There  is,  for  instance,  the  poem  of  the 
ferryman,  who  struggles  manfully  against  the  storm 
to  reach  the  opposite  bank  whence  he  is  pitifully 
hailed,  only  to  find,  when  his  oars  are  broken  and 
his  rudder  is  gone,  that  he  is  still  where  he  started 
from.  Beaten  as  he  is,  however,  he  has  not  let 
go  of  the  green  reed  between  his  teeth.  How 
inspiriting  is  this  picture  of  will-power  that  clings 
to  hope !  More  desolate  in  the  murk  of  its  land- 
scape is  the  symbol  of  the  fishermen  hopelessly 
befogged  in  the  night  of  ignorance  and  selfishness : 
the   dank   fog   chokes   everything  and  buries  the 

moon : 

140 


Emile  Verhaeren 

"  But  flickering  lanterns  now  and  then 
Light  up  and  magnify  the  backs, 
Bent  obstinately  in  their  smacks, 
Of  the  old  river  fishermen, 
Who  all  the  time  from  last  sunset, 
For  what  night's  fishing  none  can  know. 
Have  cast  their  black  and  greedy  net. 
Where  silent,  evil  waters  flow. 

And  never  helping  one  another. 
Never  brother  hailing  brother. 
Never  doing  what  they  ought, 
For  himself  each  fisher's  thought : 
And  the  first  draws  his  net,  and  seizes 
All  the  fry  of  his  poverty  ; 
And  the  next  drags  up,  as  keen  as  he, 
The  empty  bottoms  of  diseases ; 
Another  opens  out  his  net 
To  griefs  that  on  the  surface  swim  ; 
And  another  to  his  vessel's  rim 
Pulls  up  the  flotsam  of  regret. 

*'  The  river  churns,  league  after  league. 
Along  the  dikes,  and  runs  away, 
As  it  has  done  so  many  a  day. 
To  the  far  horizon  of  fatigue ; 
Upon  its  banks  skins  of  black  clay 
By  night  perspire  a  poison  draught : 
The  fogs  are  fleeces  far  to  waft, 
And  to  men's  houses  journey  they. 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Why  in  the  dark  do  they  not  hail  each  other  ? 
Why  does  a  brother's  voice  console  not  brother  ? 


"  No,  numb  and  haggard  they  remain, 
With  vaulted  back  and  heavy  brain. 
With,  by  their  side,  their  little  light 
Rigid  in  the  river's  night. 
Like  blocks  of  shadow  there  they  are, 
And  never  pierce  their  eyes  afar 
Beyond  the  acrid,  spongy  wet ; 
And  they  suspect  not  that  above, 
Luring  them  with  a  magnet's  love, 
Stars  immense  are  shining  yet." 
• 

Verhaeren  is  essentially  a  masculine  poet,  and 
women  do  not  understand  him.  Many  of  his 
poems  which  deal  with  women  and  love  are  vio- 
lently, outrageously  erotic ;  but  they  are  not  love- 
poems.  It  was  not  till  after  his  marriage  that 
Verhaeren  wrote  love- poems ;  and  from  these  (Les 
Heures  Claires,  1896  ;  Les  Heures  d Apres-midi, 
1905  ;  Les  Heures  du  Soir,  191 1)  violence  is  ex- 
cluded. 

"  These  little  pages,"  says  Zweig,  "  are  the  privacy 
of  his  personal  life,  the  confession  of  a  passion  which  is 
great  indeed,  but  veiled  as  it  were  with  a  delicate  shame. 
.  .  .  And  in  truth,  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  anything 

142 


£mile  Verhaeren 

more  touching  than  the  sight  of  this  mighty  fighter  here 
lowering  his  resonant  voice  to  the  soft  breathings  of 
devotion.  These  verses  are  quite  simple,  spoken  low,  as 
though  wild  and  too  passionate  words  might  imperil  so 
noble  a  feeling,  as  though  a  strong  man,  a  brutal  man, 
who  is  afraid  of  hurting  a  delicate  woman  with  a  touch 
accustomed  to  bronze,  should  lay  his  hand  on  hers  only 
softly,  most  cautiously." 

They  are  poems  of  love  sequestered  : 

"  In  the  cottage  where  our  peaceful  love  reposes, 
With  its  dear  old  furniture  in  shady  nooks. 
Where  never  a  prying  witness  on  us  looks. 
Save  through  the  casement  panes  the  climbing  roses, 

"  So  sweet  the  days  are,  after  olden  trial, 

So  sweet  with  silence  is  the  summer  time, 
I  often  stay  the  hour  upon  the  chime 
In  the  clock  of  oak-wood  with  the  golden  dial. 

"  And  then  the  day,  the  night  is  so  much  ours, 
That  the  hush  of  happiness  around  us  starts 
To  hear  the  beating  of  our  clinging  hearts, 
When  on  your  face  my  kisses  fall  in  showers." 

Verhaeren  is  a  lyrist  pure  and  simple.     Where- 

ever  he  has  tried  his  hand  at  anything  else  than 

poems  he  has,  comparatively  speaking,  failed.     His 

143 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

art  criticism,  especially  his  book  on  Rembrandt,  is 
often  interesting  as  a  revelation  of  himself.  His 
literary  criticism  is  generous  and  all-embracing ; 
he  has  no  eyes  for  faults  or  littleness,  but  his  com- 
plete intelligence  of  all  literary  genres  inspires  him 
with  illuminating  touches.  His  dramas  have  not 
conquered  the  stage,  and  they  never  will,  though 
several  of  them  have  been  performed  with  a  fair 
measure  of  success.  Even  Arthur  Symon's  trans- 
lation [The  Dawn)  could  not  make  Les  Aubes 
(1898)  more  than  passably  interesting,  though  it 
has  some  importance  in  the  chain  of  Verhaeren's 
work  as  completing  Les  Campagnes  Hallucindes 
and  Les  Villes  Tentaculaires  by  showing  the  final 
reconciliation  of  the  town  and  the  country,  after  a 
siege  of  Oppidomagnum.  At  the  present  moment, 
too,  The  Dawn  has  points  of  interest  in  its 
prophecy  of  the  ending  of  war  by  the  triumph 
of  socialism  :  only  when  war  disappears,  says  the 
great  tribune  (apparently  modelled  on  Verhaeren's 
friend  and  fellow-worker  Emile  Vandervelde)  who 
is  the  hero  of  the  tragedy,  will  all  other  injustices 
disappear  too — the  hate  of  the  country  for  the  city, 

of  poverty  for  gold,  of  distress  for  power.     Only 

144 


Emile  Verhaeren 

when  races  learn  to  embrace  each  other  will  the 
world  cease  to  bristle  with  nations,  armed  and 
tragic  and  deadly,  on  the  frontiers.  Le  Cloitre 
(1900)  has  dramatic  moments  of  some  power,  and 
it  is  a  pity  that  the  melodramatic  acting  during  its 
recent  production  in  London  should  have  created 
a  wrong  impression.  Miss  Horniman's  production 
in  Manchester  of  Osman  Edwards's  rendering  was 
a  more  genuine  success,  and  was  approved  by  the 
not  easily  satisfied  critics  of  the  Manchester  Guar- 
dian. In  Philippe  II  (1904)  Verhaeren  had  (after 
De  Coster)  a  great  opportunity  of  contrasting  the 
black  asceticism  of  Spain  with  the  rubicund  joy  in 
life  of  Flanders ;  he  shows  us  Philip,  a  religious 
maniac,  spying  on  his  son,  while  he  himself  is  spied 
upon  by  the  monks  of  the  Inquisition.  HHene  de 
Sparte  is  fine  in  conception :  he  would  show  us 
Helen  returned  to  Sparta  with  a  heart  sick  of  the 
love  she  has  inspired  and  endured,  longing  to  end 
her  days  in  peace,  *'  a  woman  who  tends  a  hearth 
with  slow  and  gentle  hands  "  ;  but  peace  is  denied 
her  (for  she  is  Beauty) — all  hands  stretch  out  to 
seize  her,  lust  flames  round  her,  and  when  she 
cries  out  for  death  the  satyrs  of  the  woods  and 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

the  nymphs  of  the  rivers  assail  her,  and  Jupiter 
himself  snatches  her  up  to  the  sky. 

Verhaeren  is  a  world-poet ;  his  theme  is  the 
cosmos.  But  for  one  part  of  his  work  at  least  his 
native  province  of  Flanders  claims  him  as  her  own 
and  calls  him  her  national  poet.  Toute  la  Flandre 
is  a  series  of  five  books  {^Les  Tendresses  Premieres, 
1904  ;  La  Guirlande  des  Dunes,  1907  ;  Les  Hdros^ 
1908;  Les  Petites  Villes  h  Pignons,  1909;  Les 
Plaines,  191 2)  in  which  he  celebrates  his  native 
land  in  the  present  and  in  the  past.  La  Guirlande 
des  Dunes  has  now  (like  Lemonnier's  Le  Petit 
Homme  de  Dieu)  an  absorbing  and  pathetic  in- 
terest. The  dunes  that  in  these  poems  are  a  '*  gar- 
land "  are  now  soaked  with  blood ;  multitudinous 
cannon  have  thundered  for  months  over  these 
canals ;  and  "  this  sad  but  sweet  corner "  is  now 
a  desert.  One  poem  rolls  out  the  saga  of  the 
immemorial  towers  of  Nieuport  and  Lisweghe  and 
Furnes,  the  towers  that  rise  out  of  the  sea-mists 
**  like  widows  weeping  in  the  winds  of  old  winters." 
Wars  with  the  rolling  thunder  of  their  guns  raged 
round  them,  very  long  ago,  and  yet  they  stand.  .  .  . 

They  symbolise,  these  hoary,  battle-stained  towers, 

146 


!^mile  Verhaeren 

the  indestructible  heroism  of  Flanders,  the  measure- 
less mourning  of  her  departed  days,  all  the  his- 
tory of  a  tenacious  land. 

Great  claims  are  made  for  Verhaeren  by  his 
admirers,  and  it  is  perhaps  inevitable  that  he  should 
run  the  risk  of  being  over-estimated.  In  England 
at  the  present  moment  he  is  certainly  read  a 
great  deal ;  and  he  is  sure  to  become  more  famous 
during  the  next  few  years.  The  great  danger  is, 
not  so  much  that  he  will  be  over-estimated,  as  that 
those  parts  of  his  work  which  have  comparatively 
little  value  will  be  excessively  lauded  to  the  detri- 
ment of  his  vital  poems.  It  may  be  questioned 
whether,  as  far  as  ideas  are  concerned,  he  has 
contributed  anything  indisputably  original  to  that 
body  of  poetic  material  which  passes  into  the  public 
consciousness  and  becomes  commonplace,  except 
his  great  visualisation  of  the  contest  between  the 
City  and  the  Country.  This  one  aspect  of  his 
work,  however,  is  far-reaching,  and  it  is  continued 
in  the  chief  revolutionary  phases  of  contem- 
porary poetry.  From  Verhaeren's  spiritualisation 
of  matter  and  his  ecstatic  hailing   of  the   future 

proceed  both  the  unanism  of  Jules  Romains  and 

147 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

the  extravagances  of  Marinetti.  Verhaeren's  in- 
fluence is  perhaps  just  beginning.  Whether  he  will 
always  be  considered  at  his  present  value  may- 
be doubted.  He  has  often,  and  rightly,  been 
compared  with  Victor  Hugo.  He  has  Hugo's 
international  fame ;  he  has  Hugo's  rhetoric  and 
sweeping  gestures.  Like  Hugo,  he  is  a  spectacular 
poet,  a  poet  whose  words  can  be  unrolled  as 
banners  and  carried  along  by  parties  with  a  pro- 
gramme. But  Victor  Hugo,  who  was  all  this 
and  perhaps  more,  has  fallen  into  disrepute.  His 
poetry  was  rhetoric,  we  are  told.  However,  it 
has  not  yet  been  definitely  fixed  to  what  extent 
rhetoric  may  be  allowed  in  poetry ;  and  if  the 
investigation  were  mathematically  made  it  would 
probably  be  found  that  the  greater  part  of  the 
poetic  masterpieces  of  the  world  consists  of  rhetoric. 
The  likelihood  is  that  when  all  deductions  are 
made  Verhaeren  will  remain ;  as  Victor  Hugo 
remains. 

In  one  respect  Verhaeren  is  vastly  inferior  to 
Victor  Hugo :  the  range  of  his  vocabulary  is  ex- 
ceedingly narrow.     His  stock  words  recur  with  a 

frequency  that  is   almost  entertaining.     But,  after 

148 


Emile  Verhaeren 

all,  words  are  of  less  importance  than  sensations, 
images,  emotions ;  and  in  these  Verhaeren  is 
rich  indeed.  He  is  so  much  the  richer  in  these 
essentials  of  poetry  as  his  domain  was  practically 
undiscovered :  he  has  been  the  first  to  mint  the 
poetry  of  a  new  world.  But  even  here  we  must 
be  careful  not  to  claim  too  much  for  him.  The 
very  fact  that  he  was  a  discoverer  implies  that  he 
is  a  stranger ;  he  is  not  native-born  in  the  new 
world,  and  there  is  always  the  feeling  that  he  is 
not  quite  acclimatised.  Critics  have  not  sufficiently 
realised  the  fact  that  Verhaeren  is  so  astonished 
by  the  beauty  of  action,  of  mechanical  force,  that 
he  stands  outside  it.  He  sees  it  with  the  eyes 
of  the  spectator,  of  the  painter.  It  has  so  much 
the  greater  effect  on  him  as  he  has  not  the  depth 
of  a  philosopher,  but  the  naivet^  of  a  wondering 
child.  To  him  it  is  all  a  miracle.  The  mightier 
poet  of  the  new  world  will  have  grown  up  in  it, 
and  will  have  eyes  for  manifestations  which  are 
less  obvious. 


149 


CHAPTER  VI 

MAURICE   MAETERLINCK 

It  is  said  that  Madame  Maeterlinck  has  a  con- 
siderable library,  all  her  own,  which  consists  en- 
tirely of  works  written  about  her  husband  in  all 
languages.  Undoubtedly  Maeterlinck  has  been 
one  of  the  most  discussed  writers  of  modern  times  ; 
and  though  of  late  years  there  has  been  a  reaction 
against  the  over-estimation  in  which  he  was  held 
for  a  period,  he  still  remains  one  of  the  great 
forces  of  international  literature.  His  books  are 
translated,  sometimes  before  they  appear  in 
French,  into  the  chief  languages  of  the  world ; 
and  even  when  what  he  writes  is  feeble,  it  is 
discussed  everywhere  as  though  it  were  the  pro- 
nouncement of  an  oracle.  From  the  selling  point 
of  view,  his  position  is  impregnable.  He  has 
been  attacked,  by  the  venom  of  Jesuits,  the  innu- 
endoes of  the  envious,  and  the  sarcasm  of  critics 

who  object  on   principle   to   literature   that   has  a 

150 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

popular  appeal ;  but  Maeterlinck  sits  secure  behind 
his  vast  public,  a  mandarin  rich  and  petted  and 
spoiled.  He  is  in  some  quarters  the  target  of 
poisoned  darts  merely  because,  as  one  of  his 
critics  says,  he  is  "glutted  with  glory  and 
gold,"  as  though  this  taunt  of  a  too  great  fond- 
ness for  the  world's  goods  could  not  be  hurled 
at  nearly  all  Belgian  men  of  letters,  who  are 
apt  to  be  business  men  first  and  literary  men 
after. 

There  is  a  modicum  of  truth  in  the  belief  that 
a  writer  whose  genius  is  profoundly  original  is  not 
likely  to  find  an  extensive  public ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  permanent  residence  in  Grub  Street 
is  not  an  essential  criterion  of  literary  merit,  and 
there  are  several  cases  in  our  own  times,  beside 
Maeterlinck,  of  great  writers  who  have  amassed 
riches.  In  Belgian  literary  circles,  it  is  true,  there 
is  a  feeling  that  Maeterlinck  has  been  unduly  suc- 
cessful, while  Lemonnier  and  Verhaeren,  writers 
of  at  least  equal  value,  have  been  condemned  to 
comparative  poverty.  However,  Maeterlinck  may 
here  be  taken  at  his   face   value   as  a   prince   of 

letters  in  the  sense  that  such  and  such  a  business 

151 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

man  (it  may  be  for  adventitious  reasons)  is  known 
as  a  "  merchant  prince." 

Maurice  Maeterlinck,  the  son  of  a  retired 
notary  in  easy  circumstances,  was  born  in  Ghent 
in  1862.  His  schooldays  at  Sainte-Barbe  were 
the  most  painful  in  his  existence :  he  would  not 
begin  life  again,  he  has  said,  at  the  price  of 
another  seven  years  at  that  Jesuit  institution. 
Maeterlinck,  however,  had  congenial  schoolfellows 
in  Charles  van  Lerberghe  and  Gr^goire  Le  Roy ; 
and  the  three  clubbed  together  and  subscribed  to 
La  Jeune  Belgique,  to  which  in  1883  Maeterlinck 
contributed  his  first  poem  to  be  printed.  After 
Sainte-Barbe,  Maeterlinck  took  his  law  degree  at 
the  university  of  his  native  city,  but,  having  in 
those  days  neither  voice  nor  presence,  he  soon  gave 
up  his  attempts  to  practise.  In  1886  he  resided  for 
seven  months  in  Paris.  He  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Mallarm^ ;  and  he  courted  Villiers  de  1' Isle- 
Adam.  Of  more  immediate  service  to  him  were  a 
group  of  young  writers  who  were  just  about  to 
launch  La  PlHade.  To  this  review  Maeterlinck 
contributed  Le  Massacre   des   Innocents^    the   only 

short  story  of  his  which  has  been  published.     It 

152 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

is  an  excellent  piece  of  work,  and  the  manner  of 
it,  if  Maeterlinck  had  followed  it  up,  might  have 
led  to  a  new  realism,  coarser  in  outline  and  more 
grotesque  than  the  realism  which  Eugene  Demolder 
was  to  develop  by  a  similar  method  of  transposing 
pictures. 

On  his  return  to  Belgium  Maeterlinck  was  in- 
troduced by  Georges  Rodenbach  to  the  directors 
of  La  Jeune  Belgique,  to  which  he  contributed 
several  of  the  poems  published  in  1889  under 
the  title  of  Sevres  Chaudes  (Hothouses).  Serves 
Chaudes  is  still  a  famous  book,  and  to  many 
people  it  represents  one  of  the  best  collections  of 
Belgian  verse.  That,  however,  is  an  impossible 
view  ;  the  little  volume  has  historical  significance 
in  the  history  of  the  Symbolist  movement,  and  it 
is  interesting  as  marking  a  stage  in  Maeterlinck's 
career ;  but  as  poetry,  weighing  its  intrinsic  value,  it 
is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  as  any 
volume  of  Verhaeren's,  Charles  van  Lerberghe's, 
Max  Elskamp's,  or  Albert  Giraud's.  Serres 
Chaudes  may  justly  be  called  "decadent":  these 
are   poems   which   consistently  exploit  a  pretence 

of    disease.      Maeterlinck,    so    far    as   is    known, 

153 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

was  as  healthy  a  man  as  ever  shouldered  a  rifle 
in  the  Garde  Civique  of  Ghent ;  but  during  his 
stay  in  Paris  he  had  seen  in  which  direction  the 
wind  was  blowing,  and  his  mind  was  sufficiently 
adaptable  to  devise  plausible  lays  of  mental  fever. 
Indeed,  the  poems  have  so  authentic  a  ring  that 
German  theorists  have  inferred  from  them  that 
he,  like  Verhaeren,  must  have  passed  through  a 
period  of  mental  crisis.  In  both  cases,  no  doubt, 
there  was  business  method  in  the  madness.  But 
a  suspected  insincerity  need  not  detract  from  the 
genuineness  of  the  poems  :  most  poetry  is  feigning, 
and  if  the  atmosphere  is  produced,  biographical 
agreement  can  be  dispensed  with.  And  there  is 
certainly  an  atmosphere  in  Serves  Chaudes. 
Maeterlinck  chose  to  regard  the  human  soul  as 
a  lorn  lily  sweltering  in  a  hothouse,  amid  the 
fauna  of  remorse  and  the  slow  palms  of  longing. 
The  mood  of  listless  apathy  and  sick  brooding  is 
finely  rendered  by  chaotic  but  appropriate  images : 

"  O  weariness  blue  in  the  breast ! 
Wedding  the  better  sight. 
In  the  weeping,  wan  moonHght, 
Of  my  blue  dreams  with  languor  oppressed  ! 
154 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

"  This  weariness  blue  evermore, 
Where  through  the  deep  windows  green, 
As  in  a  hothouse  are  seen, 
With  moon  and  with  glass  covered  o'er, 

"  The  mighty  forests  undying 
Whose  nightly  forgetfulness, 
Like  a  dream  motionless. 
On  the  roses  of  passion  is  lying ; 

"  Where  rises  a  slow  water-beam. 
Mingling  the  moon  and  the  sky 
In  a  glaucous,  eternal  sigh. 
Monotonous  as  a  dream." 

Other  poems  in  Serves  Chaudes  are  written  in 
a  species  of  drawling  blank  verse  directly  imitated 
from  Walt  Whitman's  **  barbarous  yawp."  They 
aim  at  creating  a  new  kind  of  poetry  by  stringing 
successive  images  together.  The  effect  is  as  a 
rule  rather  silly : 

"  O  bell-glasses  ! 
Plants  from  afar  for  ever  sheltered ! 
While  the  wind  outside  is  blowing  my  senses  about ! 
All  a  valley  of  the  soul  for  ever  stirring  not ! 
And  the  heat  shut  in  at  noon ! 
And  images,  glimpsed  clinging  to  the  glass  ! 
155 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Raise  none  of  them  I 
Some  have  been  fixed  above  old  rays  of  the  moon. 
Peer  through  their  foliage : 
There  is  a  tramp,  it  may  be,  on  the  throne, 
It  seems  that  corsairs  on  the  pond  are  waiting, 
It  seems  that   troglodytes  are   marching   serried  to 
the  siege  of  cities. 

"And  some  are  covering  olden  snows. 
And  some  are  covering  olden  rains. 
(Pity  the  sweating  sultriness  !) 
I  hear  the  swell  of  festive  anthems  on  a  famished 

Sunday, 
There  is  an  ambulance  amid  the  harvest, 
And   the    King's    daughters    all    are   straying    in    a 
season  of  lean  fare  through  fields  ! 

"  But  mostly  look  at  those  that  dent  the  verge  ! 
Carefully  they  are  covering  olden  tempests. 
Oh  1     Somewhere  there  must  be  a  vast  fleet  on  a 

marsh ! 
And  I  believe  that  swans  have  hatched  out  ravens  ! 
(You  hardly  glimpse  things  through  the  moistness), 
A  virgin  with  hot  water  waters  ferns, 
A   troop   of  little  girls  is  watching  in  his  cell  the 

hermit, 
My  sisters  slumber  deep  in  a  poisonous  cave  ! 

"  Wait  for  the  moon  and  the  winter. 
On  these  bell-glasses  scattered  over  the  ice  ! " 
156 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

It  is  easy  to  laugh  at  such  experiments  as  this. 
But  if  nothing  was  achieved,  much  was  attempted. 
Maeterlinck's  mind  had  considerable  subtlety,  and 
the  very  failures  of  his  youthful  dreaming  are  to 
this  day  rich  in  suggestiveness.  We  know  what 
his  intentions  were  in  writing  Serves  Chaudes, 
for  Charles  van  Lerberghe,  the  confidant  and  ac- 
complice of  his  artistic  schemes,  revealed  them  in 
La  Wallonie  for  July  1889. 

"  His  verses  with  their  violet  tones,"  says  van  Ler- 
berghe, "  white  with  electricity,  full  of  phosphorus  and 
the  wind  of  storm,  opened  out  in  our  lovely  evenings  of 
festival  a  succession  of  new  horizons,  sinister  and  silent. 
.  .  .  Here  decadent  sensations  have  reached  the  exasper- 
ation of  their  strength,  the  last  burst  blooms  of  their 
fever,  and  these  poems  of  Serves  Chaudes  are  the  supreme 
black  flowers  of  our  day's  overheated  and  diseased  spirit. 
In  the  rays  of  this  absolute  radiance  all  is  transformed. 
The  air  is  hot  and  stifling.  The  dreamer  pales,  and  his 
hands,  moist  with  fever,  palpitate ;  he  is  on  the  confines 
of  a  strange  country  of  death  and  madness  ;  his  eyes  are 
charged  with  a  sulphuric  light  which  discovers  a  world 
of  mysteries.  .  .  .  The  poet's  rare  magic  makes  you  see 
and  feel  beyond  sensations  ;  he  has  the  intuition  of  sen- 
sations ;  in  sensations  he  discovers  symbols,  analogies, 
forebodings,  sympathies,  and  antipathies  hitherto  unex- 
plored.    He  pierces  to  the  depth  of  things,  sees  joy  in 

157 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

grief,  grief  in  joy,  the  supernatural  in  the  natural,  every- 
where and  always  he  finds  horror,  things  unfinished  and 
things  exhausted,  the  danger  of  living,  the  difficulty  of 
living.  Instead  of  seizing  the  harmonies  of  things,  he 
hearkens  to  their  intimate  discordance,  to  their  broken 
relations.  He  renders  the  shadows  that  wrap  every 
mirage  and  which  are  indeed  its  very  essence  and  cause, 
and  in  the  shadows  he  perceives  the  glittering  of  heavens 
invisible.  .  .  .  To  render  this  vision  by  a  material  image, 
there  seems  to  be,  in  the  midst  of  a  strange  Dutch  garden, 
the  basin  of  a  warm  fountain,  motionless  and  inert  and 
suffering,  flowered  with  the  sublime  nymphaeaceae  of  tor- 
por :  '  Et  torpenti  multa  relinquitur  miseria.'  Here  in  a 
night  of  tempest  nature  is  reflected.  Things  appear  to 
emerge  from  the  fountain's  depths :  they  are  only  re- 
fracted rays,  but  their  obstinate  images  in  the  end  have 
poisoned  the  water,  have  troubled  its  essence,  by  mingling 
with  it :  symbols  of  then:  griefs,  the  light  of  their  dark- 
ness. And  this  something  above  and  beyond  that  we 
perceive  at  the  heart  of  the  images,  in  and  around  them, 
the  mirror  that  shows  more  than  it  reflects,  *  a  glass  which 
shows  us  many  more' — this  is  the  soul  itself,  warm, 
motionless  and  suffering.  .  .  .  The  soul,  like  Saint  Cecilia 
immured  in  her  boiling  bath,  has  said  its  prayer ;  it  grows 
strangely  pale,  its  eyes  are  in  death,  its  hands  are  on  the 
waters  of  madness,  but  the  orchids  of  its  crown  shall  not 
wither.  They  rejoice  above  it,  a  company  of  angels  in 
the  raptures  and  perfumes  of  the  firmament. 

"  Maeterlinck  is  no  chlorotic  lover  of  pale  roses  and 
nightshades.     His   ideal    is    green   rather.      His   style   is 

158 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

robust,  bitter,  harsh,  without  softness,  without  distinctions 
of  shade;  it  blends  a  barbarian  polychrome  with  the 
speckled  dark  of  the  styles  of  decadence.  Most  of  his 
verses  are  formed  of  contrasts,  of  elements  which  both 
attract  and  repel  each  other.  They  are  the  positive  and 
the  negative  poles  of  things.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  poems 
have  the  heaviness  of  summer  evenings  ;  they  are  the 
warm  rain  ;  the  sky  rolling  up  its  thunder ;  the  odour  of 
hot  harvests.  Others  have  the  cold  fluctuations  of  mer- 
cury, the  phosphorescent  skins  of  panthers,  the  poison  of 
hemlock  and  belladonna,  the  elasticity  of  breasts  moist 
and  firm,  the  effervescence  and  the  mephitic  stagnation 
of  pools.  .  .  ." 

There  could  be  no  better  interpretation,  not 
only  of  the  dream  of  overcharged  sensations  which 
Serves  Chaudes  purports  to  be,  but  of  Maeterlinck's 
early  dramas,  of  Rodenbach's  sick  reveries,  of 
Verhaeren's  pathological  trilogy,  and  of  all  the 
other  phases  of  artistic  perversion  evolved  by  the 
Belgian  poets  of  those  days.^ 

Serres  Chaudes  as  now  published  is  aug- 
mented by  Quinze  Chansons,  fifteen  songs,  some 
of  them  embedded  in  the  dramas  as  well,  which 

^  Pessimistic  books  were  so  numerous  in  the  'eighties  that  Cdlestin 
Demblon,  in  a  review  of  Coffin's  Impressions  et  Sensations  {La  Wal- 
lonie,  Aug.  1888)  called  them  "a  new  plague  of  Egypt,"  and  foresaw 
the  necessity  of  discovering  an  energetic  insecticide. 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

have  a  languid  distinction  of  their  own.  Veiled 
with  mystery  as  they  are,  several  of  them,  like  the 
following,  have  the  charm  of  folksongs  : 

"  And  if  he  come  back  some  day, 

What  shall  be  said  to  him  ? —  , 

One  for  him  waited,  say. 

Until  her  eyes  grew  dim.  .  .  . 

"  And  if  again  he  spake, 

And  did  not  know  me  more  ? — 
Like  a  sister  answer  make, 

He  might  be  suffering  sore.  .  .  . 

"  And  if  he  would  be  told 

Where  you  are  dwelling  now  ? — 
Give  him  my  ring  of  gold. 

And  bend  your  silent  brow.  .  .  . 

"  And  if  he  miss  the  clock's  tick. 

And  see  the  dust  on  the  floor  ? — 
Show  him  the  lamp's  burnt  wick, 
Show  him  the  open  door.  .  .  . 

"  And  if  his  last  he  saith, 

And  ask  how  you  fell  asleep  ? — 
Tell  him  I  smiled  in  death,1 

For  fear  lest  he  should  weep.  .   .  ." 

Serves  Chaudes  would  have  remained  the  pos- 
session of  a  few  inquiring  spirits  if  Maeterlinck  had 

i6o 


I 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

not,  on  the  24th  of  August  1890,  been  skyrocketed 
into  fame  by  Octave  Mirbeau  in  one  of  the  most 
astounding  examples  of  puff  on  record.  Mirbeau, 
in  Mallarm^'s  study,  had  laid  his  hands  on  a  copy 
of  Maeterlinck's  La  Princesse  Maleine,  the  first  of 
the  dramas,  of  which  thirty  copies  had  just  been 
turned  out  by  Maeterlinck  himself,  with  the  aid 
of  a  friend,  on  a  hand-press.  "  What's  this  ? " 
asked  Mirbeau.  "  A  masterpiece,"  Mallarm^  an- 
swered;  "you  read  it."  Mirbeau  read  it,  and 
ere  long  his  eulogy  appeared  in  Figaro,  a 
newspaper  to  which  Maeterlinck  was  destined  to 
contribute  many  of  his  essays  ere  they  were 
strung  together  to  appear  in  book  form.  The 
critique  runs  as  follows : 

"  I  know  nothing  of  M.  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  I 
know  not  whence  he  is  nor  how  he  is.  Whether  he 
is  old  or  young,  rich  or  poor,  I  know  not.  I  only  know 
that  no  man  is  more  unknown  than  he  ;  and  I  know 
also  that  he  has  created  a  masterpiece,  not  a  master- 
piece labelled  masterpiece  in  advance,  such  as  our  young 
masters  publish  every  day,  but  an  admirable  and  an 
eternal  masterpiece,  a  masterpiece  which  is  sufficient  to 
immortalise  a  name,  and  to  make  all  those  who  are 
a-hungered  for  the  beautiful   and  the  great  rise  up  and 

161  L 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

call  this  name  blessed  ;  a  masterpiece  such  as  honest 
and  tormented  artists  have  sometimes,  in  their  hours  of 
enthusiasm,  dreamed  of  writing,  and  such  as  up  to  the 
present  not  one  of  them  has  written.  In  short,  M. 
Maurice  MaeterHnck  has  given  us  the  greatest  work  of 
genius  of  our  time,  and  the  most  extraordinary  and  the 
most  simple  also,  comparable — and — shall  I  dare  to  say 
it? — superior  in  beauty  to  whatever  is  most  beautiful 
in  Shakespeare.  This  work  is  called  La  Princesse 
Maleine.  Are  there  in  all  the  world  twenty  persons 
who  know  it  ?     I  doubt  it." 

Probably   Max  Nordau  was  as   near  the  truth 

when    he    called    the    drama    "a    Shakespearean 

anthology     for     children    or     Patagonians " ;     but 

Mirbeau's  praise,  though   injudicious,  was  sincere. 

It  made  Maeterlinck,  who  before  long  was  being 

discussed    in    two   hemispheres    as    "  the    Belgian 

Shakespeare."     The  label  was  of  course  absurd, 

but  as  an  advertising  medium  it  struck  the  eye. 

There  are,  it  is  true,  points  of  similarity  between 

La  Princesse  Maleine  and  several  of  Shakespeare's 

plays,  especially  with  Hamlet,  but  they  are  merely 

external.       Maeterlinck's   play   is    boyish    enough, 

but  it  is  original  both  in  conception  and  execution. 

Maeterlinck   was   already    obsessed   by   the    ideas 

which    caused    him    to    christen    his    early    plays 

162 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

"  Little  Dramas  for  Marionettes "  :  human  beings 
are  puppets  moved  to  and  fro  by  Fate,  the  Show- 
man behind  the  scenes.  (Fitzgerald's  Omar  had 
put  the  matter  in  a  stanza.)  It  is  no  use  struggling 
against  the  Showman's  manipulation.  The  puppets 
do  not  act,  they  are  made  to  act.  They  them- 
selves are  hardly  conscious  of  what  they  do  :  they 
move  "like  deaf  somnambulists  constantly  being 
roused  from  a  nightmare."  The  language  Maeter- 
linck puts  into  their  mouths  (how  far  removed 
from  Shakespeare's  sonorous  rhetoric !)  is  delicately 
adapted  to  this  conception :  they  stammer  short 
sentences,  which  hostile  critics  have  compared 
with  Ollendorfian  dialogue.  It  would  be  unfair 
to  take  a  passage  at  haphazard  to  afford  an  ex- 
ample of  this  marionette  manner ;  but  there  can 
be  no  objection  to  detaching  a  scene  which  in 
itself  is  genuinely  dramatic,  the  murder  scene  in 
the  play : 

Princess  Maleines  room.  The  princess  is  sitting  motionless 
on  her  bed,  listening  in  terror:  enter  the  King  and 
Queen  Anne.  .   .  .   The  storm  grows  louder. 

The  King.  Let  us  go  away !     I  can  hear  her  heart 
beating  here ! 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Anne.  Proceed  ;  .  .   .  are  you  losing  your  wits  ? 

The  King.  She  is  looking  at  us,  oh  !  oh  ! 

Anne.  Come,  she  is  a  little  girl !  .  .  .  Good  evening, 
Maleine.  .  .  .  Don't  you  hear  me,  Maleine !  We  have 
come  to  bid  you  good  night.  .  .  .  Are  you  ill,  Maleine  ? 
Don't  you  hear  me  ?     Maleine !     Maleine  ! 

[Maleine  makes  a  sign  that  she  hears. 

The  King.  Ah ! 

Anne.  What  a  fright  you  give  me !  .  .  .  Maleine ! 
Maleine  !     Have  you  lost  your  voice  ? 

Maleine.  Good  .  .  .  eve  .  .  .  ning !  .  .  . 

Anne.  Ah !  So  you  are  alive ;  .  .  .  have  you  all 
you  need  ?  .  .  .  I  must  take  my  cloak  off.  {She  lays  her 
cloak  on  a  piece  of  furniture,  and  approaches  the  bed.)  .  .  . 
Let  me  see.  .  .  .  Oh !  this  pillow  is  very  hard.  .  .  . 
Let  me  arrange  your  hair.  .  .  .Why  do  you  look  at  me 
like  that,  Maleine  ?  Maleine  ?  .  .  .  Let  me  fondle  you 
a  little.  .  .  .  Where  does  it  hurt  you  ?  You  are  shivering 
as  though  you  were  going  to  die.  .  .  .  Why,  you  are 
making  the  whole  bed  tremble  !  .  .  .  I  have  only  come 
to  fondle  you  a  little.  .  .  .  Don't  look  at  me  like  that ! 
You  ought  to  be  fondled  at  your  age ;  I  am  going  to  be 
your  poor  mama.  .  .  .  Let  me  arrange  your  hair.  .  .  . 
Come,  lift  your  head  up  a  little ;  I  will  tie  your  hair  with 
this.  .  .  .   Lift  your  head  a  little.  .  .  .   So. 

[She  passes  a  string  round  her  neck. 
Maleine  (Jumping   down  from  the   bed).  Ah  !      What 
have  you  put  round  my  neck  ? 

Anne.  Nothing  !      Nothing  !      It's    nothing  !      Don't 

scream  ! 

164 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

Maleine.  Ah  !     Ah  ! 

Anne.  Stop  her !     Stop  her  ! 

The  King.  What?     What  ?^ 

Anne.  She  is  going  to  scream  !  She  is  going  to 
scream ! 

The  King.   I  can't ! 

Maleine.  You  are  going  to  !  .  .  .  you  are  going  to  !  .  .  . 

Anne  {seizing  Maleine).  No  !     No  ! 

Maleine.  Mother  !  Mother  !  Nurse  !  Nurse !  Hjalmar  ! 
Hjalmar  !  Hjalmar ! 

Anne  (Jo  the  King),  Where  are  you  ? 

The  King.  Here  !     Here  ! 

Maleine  {following  Anne  upon  her  knees).  Wait  I 
Wait  a  Httle  !  Anne  !  Madame  !  King  !  King  !  King  ! 
Hjalmar !  .  .  .  Not  to-day  !  .  .  .  No  !    No  !    Not  now  !  .  .  . 

Anne.  Are  you  going  to  follow  me  round  the  world 
on  your  knees  ?  \She  pulls  the  string. 

Maleine  {falling  in  the  middle  of  the  room).  Mother ! 
.  .  .  Oh  !    Oh  !    Oh  !  [The  King  sits  down. 

Anne.  She  doesn't  stir.  It's  all  over.  .  .  .  Where 
are  you  !  Help  me  !  She  is  not  dead.  .  .  .  You  have 
sat  down  ! 

The  King.  Yes  !     Yes  !     Yes  ! 

Anne.  Hold  her  feet ;  she  is  struggling.  She  is 
going  to  get  up.  .   .   . 

The  King.  Which  feet  ?  Which  feet  ?   Where  are  they? 

Anne.     There !     There !     There !     Pull ! 

The  King.   I  can't !     I  can't  I 

Anne.  Come,  don't  make  her  suffer  needlessly ! 

[Here  the  hail  rattles  suddenly  against  the  windows, 
165 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

The  King.  Ah ! 

Anne.  What  have  you  done  ? 

The  King.  At  the  windows !  .  .  .  They  are  knocking 
at  the  windows  ! 

Anne.   They  are  knocking  at  the  windows  ? 

The  King.  Yes  !  Yes  !  With  millions  of  fingers ! 
oh  !  millions  of  fingers  !  [Another  squall. 

Anne.  They  are  hailstones  ! 

The  King.  Hailstones  ? 

Anne.  Yes. 

The  King.  Are  they  hailstones  ? 

Anne.  Yes,  I  saw  them.   ...   Her  eyes  are  glazing. 

The  King.  I  want  to  go  away !  I  am  going  away  1 
I  am  going  away  ! 

Anne.  What?  What?  Wait  I  Wait!  She  is 
dead.  [Here    a  gust   of  wind  blows  a   window    open 

violently  and  a  vase  containing  a  lily  falls 
noisily  down  into  the  room. 

This  passage  will  serve  to  show  how  naively 
Maeterlinck  piles  up  the  horror.  Princess  Maleine 
is  thoroughly  immature  in  its  dependence  on  ex- 
traneous effect,  but  the  half  a  dozen  plays  which 
follow  are  stripped  clean  of  theatrical  business  and 
rely  on  a  concentrated  simplicity  and  naturalness 
of  diction  to  bring  out  the  anguish  of  a  single 
tragic   situation.      Of   L' Intruse    (The    Intruder), 

Les  Aveugles  (The  Sightless),  Interieur  (Interior), 

i66 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

and  La  Mori  de  Tintagiles  (The  Death  of  Tinta- 
giles)  it  cannot  be  exaggeration  to  say  that  they 
are  masterpieces  for  all  time.  Maeterlinck  himself 
in  his  preface  to  his  collected  plays  {Theatre, 
1901-02),  defines  his  aims : 

"  In  these  plays  faith  is  held  in  enormous  powers, 
invisible  and  fatal.  No  one  knows  their  intentions,  but 
the  spirit  of  the  drama  assumes  they  are  malevolent, 
attentive  to  all  our  actions,  hostile  to  smiles,  to  life,  to 
peace,  to  happiness.  Destinies  which  are  innocent  but 
involuntarily  hostile  are  here  joined,  and  parted  to  the 
ruin  of  all,  under  the  saddened  eyes  of  the  wisest,  who 
foresee  the  future,  but  can  change  nothing  in  the  cruel 
and  inflexible  games  which  Love  and  Death  practise 
among  the  living.  And  Love  and  Death  and  the  other 
powers  here  exercise  a  sort  of  sly  injustice,  the  penalties 
of  which — for  this  injustice  awards  no  compensation — 
are  perhaps  nothing  but  the  whims  of  Fate.   .  .  . 

"  This  Unknown  takes  on,  most  frequently,  the  form 
of  Death.  The  infinite  presence  of  Death,  gloomy,  hypo- 
critically active,  fills  all  the  interstices  of  the  poem.  To 
the  problem  of  existence  no  reply  is  made  except  by  the 
riddle  of  its  annihilation." 

In  The  Intruder  the  members  of  a  family  are 

in  a  room  next  to  one  in  which  the  mother,  who 

has  just  been   confined,   is   lying.     One   of  them 

is  the  blind  grandfather.     He  is  restless,  irritable. 

167 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

There  are  strange  noises :  all  of  them  can  be 
explained  by  natural  causes,  and  yet,  in  the  sus- 
pense of  the  hour,  they  are  eerie.  The  sharpening 
of  a  scythe  is  heard  outside ;  it  must  be  the 
gardener  about  to  mow  the  grass.  The  lamp 
burns  badly.  The  house-dog  crouches  at  the  back 
of  his  kennel.  The  grandfather  is  sure  someone 
has  come  in,  and  is  sitting  among  them.  Midnight 
strikes,  and  they  seem  to  hear  somebody  hastily 
rising.  In  a  few  seconds  the  door  of  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber  is  opened,  and  the  Sister  of  Charity 
appears  on  the  threshold  and  makes  the  sign  of 
the  Cross  to  announce  that  her  patient  is  dead. 

In  The  Sightless  the  curtain  rises  on  a  group 
of  blind  people,  six  men  and  six  women,  who  are 
sitting  round  an  old  priest.  His  face  is  as  livid 
as  wax ;  his  lips  are  violet  and  half  open ;  his 
eyes  seem  to  be  bleeding.  The  blind  people  talk, 
querulously,  and  we  learn  that  the  emaciated  old 
priest  is  their  guide,  without  whom  they  are 
helpless.  He  has  brought  them  into  the  forest, 
because  he  wanted  to  see  the  island  for  the  last 
time   before   the   sunless   winter  set   in.     He  has 

left   them    for   a   time,   they  think,   and   they   are 

i68 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

impatiently  waiting  for  him  to  return  and  take 
them  home.  He  may  have  lost  his  way,  they 
fear.  It  is  night;  they  hear  the  wind  raging  in 
the  tree-tops,  and  the  sea  thudding  on  the  rocks. 
Now  there  is  a  noise  of  pattering  feet  in  the  dead 
leaves,  and  the  asylum  dog  comes  and  lays  its 
muzzle  on  the  knees  of  one  of  the  blind  men. 
He  feels  that  it  is  pulling  him,  and  when  he  rises 
it  leads  him  to  the  priest.  He  touches  the  priest's 
face,  and  knows  that  the  guide  is  dead. 

The  symbolism  of  The  Sightless  is  not  hard  to 
unravel.  We  are  prisoners  on  a  little  island,  where 
we  can  hear  the  mighty  waters  of  the  Ocean  of 
Infinity  roaring  evermore.  We  had  a  guide — 
Religion — that  still  seems  to  be  present  among 
us,  but  is  dead.  .  .  .  We  are  lost  in  the  dense 
dark  forest  of  enigmas.  .  .  . 

The  inner  meaning  of  Les  Sept  Princesses  (The 
Seven  Princesses)  is  as  difficult  to  decipher  as  that 
of  The  Sightless  is  easy.  In  this  drama  Maeter- 
linck has  taken  his  symbols,  not  from  the  problems 
of  everyday  life,  but  from  the  arcana  of  ascetic 
mysticism.     Seven  sisters  are  sleeping  in  a  marble 

hall   whose   doors   are   locked.     A    Prince   comes, 

169 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

home  returning  from  long  exile,  and  through  the 
thick  window  panes  he  gazes  in  rapt  longing  at 
the  loveliest  sister,  who  sleeps  in  the  middle 
of  the  others,  Ursula,  whom  he  has  loved  since 
boyhood.  He  finds  his  way  into  the  hall  through 
an  underground  passage,  past  the  tombs  of  the 
dead.  Six  princesses  awaken,  but  not  Ursula. 
She  has  died  of  her  long  waiting.  .  .  .  Maeter- 
linck may  have  had  the  idea  of  the  Buddhists  in 
his  mind,  according  to  which  the  soul  consists  of 
seven  elements,  the  central  one  being  Psyche,  that 
is,  the  real  self,  the  deepest  and  most  essential  part 
of  our  being,  which  is  unknowable,  which  no  earthly 
ideal  can  awaken  from  its  slumber. 

Pelleas  et  Melisande,  on  the  other  hand,  though 
like  the  other  plays  it  is  the  dramatisation  of  a 
mystical  idea,  the  idea  that  Fate  drives  his  pup- 
pets, like  a  flock  of  sheep,  over  the  mazy  roads 
of  Love  to  the  bourne  of  Death,  almost  reaches 
human  characterisation.  It  may  still  be  said  of 
the  characters,  as  Mr.  Yeats  said  of  them,  that 
they  are  **  naked  and  pathetic  shadows  already  half 
vapour,  and  sighing  to  one  another  upon  the  last 

abyss."     But   Love   humanises   even  disembodied 

170 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

spirits  (what  could  be  more  human  than  the  clinging 
together  of  Paola  and  Francesca  in  the  Inferno  ?)  ; 
and  it  is  possible  in  this  drama  of  Maeterlinck's  to 
disregard  the  philosophic  idea  altogether,  and  read 
the  story  as  another  and  equally  poignant  version 
of  those  famous  tales  in  which  a  young  wife  wedded 
to  a  crabbed  and  ageing  husband  loves  that  hus- 
band's brother.  **  Hostile  destinies  are  joined  in 
innocence  and  parted  to  the  ruin  of  all."  But  in 
the  conception  of  Maeterlinck  as  a  mystic  there 
is  no  question  of  adultery  in  the  loves  of  Pelleas 
and  Melisanda :  the  soul  is  inviolately  pure  and 
cannot  sin ;  and  in  harmony  with  the  conception 
there  is  a  childlike  chastity  in  all  the  converse  of 
the  lovers.  This  remoteness  from  the  flesh  makes 
Pelleas  and  Melisanda  unactable ;  and  though  it 
has  been  frequently  played  it  shapes  itself  on  the 
stage,  fatally,  as  melodrama.  It  is  excruciating 
to  see  it  debased  in  this  country  even  by  some 
of  the  best  actors  we  have :  the  symbolism  is 
coarsened  into  absurdity,  and  the  gentle  words, 
as  of  souls  feeling  out  to  each  other  through  the 
dark,  are  shouted  and  whined  with  the  traditional 

accents  and  weighted   with   sensational  vulgarity. 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Attempts  have  been  made  to  preserve  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  dramas  for  marionettes  by  stretching 
a  gauze  curtain  between  the  audience  and  the 
players;  but  it  would  need  more  than  that  to  save 
such  a  scene  as  the  following  from  outright  murder. 
Pelleas  surprises  Melisanda  combing  her  hair  at 
the  window  of  a  tower : 

Pelleas.  Come  out  of  the  shadow,  Melisanda,  so  that 
I  may  see  your  hair  undone. 

\Melisanda  bends  down  from  the  window. 

Pelleas.  Oh !  Mehsanda !  .  .  .  oh  !  you  are  beauti- 
ful!..  .  you  are  beautiful  like  that !  .  .  .  Bend  down  ! 
Bend  down !     Let  me  come  nearer  to  you.  .  .  . 

Melisanda.  I  cannot  come  nearer.  ...  I  am  bend- 
ing down  as  far  as  I  can.  .   .  . 

Pelleas.  I  cannot  climb  higher.  .  .  .  Give  me  at 
least  your  hand  this  evening  .  .  .  before  I  go  away.  .  .  . 
I  am  going  away  to-morrow.  .  .  . 

Melisanda.  No,  no,  no.  .   .   . 

Pelleas.  Yes,  yes ;  I  am  going  away,  I  shall  go 
away  to-morrow.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand,  your  little 
hand  on  my  lips.   .  .  . 

Melisanda.  I  will  not  give  you  my  hand  if  you  are 
going  away.   .   .   . 

Pelleas.  Give  it  to  me,  give  it  to  me.  .  .  . 

Melisanda.  You  will  not  go  away  ?  .  .  .   I  see  a  rose 

in  the  dark.  ... 

172 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

Pelleas.  Where  ?  .  .  .  I  only  see  the  branches  of 
the  willow  overhanging  the  wall.  .  .   . 

Melisanda.  Lower  down,  lower  down,  in  the  garden  ; 
down  there,  in  the  dark  green. 

Pelleas.  It  is  not  a  rose.  ...  I  will  go  and  see 
by  and  by,  but  give  me  your  hand  first  ;  your  hand 
first.   .  .  . 

Melisanda.  Here  then,  here  then.  ...  I  cannot 
bend  down  farther.  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  My  lips  cannot  reach  your  hand.  .   .  . 

Melisanda.  I  cannot  bend  down  farther.  ...  I  am 
near  falling.  .  .  .  Oh  !  oh !  My  hair  is  going  down  the 
tower !  .  .  . 

[Her  hair  overturns  all  of  a  sudden,  while  she 
is  bending  down,  and  floods  Pelleas. 

Pelleas.  Oh !  oh  !  what  is  this  ?  .  .  .  Your  hair, 
your  hair  is  coming  down  to  me !  .  .  .  All  your  hair, 
Melisanda,  all  your  hair  has  fallen  from  the  tower  1  I 
am  holding  it  in  my  hands,  I  am  touching  it  with  my 
lips.  ...  I  am  holding  it  in  my  arms,  I  am  winding  it 
round  my  neck.  ...  I  shall  not  open  my  hands  again 
this  night.   .  .  . 

Melisanda.  Let  me  go  I  let  me  go  I  ...  You  are 
going  to  make  me  fall !  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  No,  no,  no.  ...  I  have  never  seen  hair 
like  yours,  Melisanda !  .  .  .  See,  see ;  it  comes  from  so 
high,  and  it  floods  me  to  the  heart.  .  .  .  It  is  warm  and 
gentle  as  though  it  were  falling  from  the  sky !  .  .  .  I 
cannot  see  the  sky  through  your  hair.  .  .  .  Look,  look, 
my  hands  cannot  hold  it.  ...  It  is  fleeing  from  me,  it 

173 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

is  fleeing  from  me  into  the  willow  branches.  ...  It  is 
escaping  from  me  on  all  sides.  .  .  .  It  is  trembling  and 
stirring  and  palpitating  in  my  hands  like  a  golden  bird ; 
and  it  loves  me,  it  loves  me  a  thousand  times  more  than 
you  do ! 

Melisanda.  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,  somebody  might 
come.  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  No,  no,  no  ;  I  will  not  set  you  free  this 
night.  .  .  .  You  are  my  prisoner  for  this  night ;  all  the 
night,  all  the  night.  ,  .  . 

Melisanda.   Pelleas  !     Pelleas  !  .  .  . 

Pelleas.  You  shall  not  go  away  any  more.  ...  I 
kiss  all  your  body  when  I  kiss  your  hair,  and  in  the 
midst  of  its  flames  I  suffer  no  longer.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear 
my  kisses  ?  .  .  .  They  rise  along  a  thousand  meshes  of 
gold.  .  .  . 

Melisanda.  I  hear  steps.  .  .  .  Let  me  go !  .  .  .  It 
is  Golaud  !  .   .  . 

Pelleas.  Wait !  Wait !  .  .  .  Your  hair  is  caught 
in  the  branches.  .  .  .  Wait,  wait !  .   .  .   It  is  dark.  .  .  . 

[^Enier  Golaud. 

Golaud.  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

Pelleas.  What  am  I  doing  here  ?  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 

Golaud.  You    are   children.   .   .  .   Melisanda,  do  not 

bend   down    in    that    way    from    the    window,    you    will 

fall.   .  .  .   Do  you  not  know  that  it  is  very  late  ?  .  .   . 

It  is  near  midnight.  ...   Do  not  play  like  this   in   the 

dark.  .   .   .   You  are  children.   .   .   .  (Laughing  nervously.) 

What  children  !   .   .   .  What  children  !  .  .  . 

[Exit  with  Pelleas. 
174 


Maurice    Maeterlinck 

Scenes  of  this  nature,  from  which  passion  is 
banned  and  where  only  the  stirrings  of  the  soul, 
fathoms  below  consciousness,  are  suggested,  are  not 
dramatic  in  the  accepted  sense  of  the  dramatic. 
Any  other  dramatist  would  have  made  the  husband, 
Golaud,  act  violently  ;  but  the  clash  of  words  would 
be  physical,  and  with  the  physical  the  dramas  for 
marionettes  are  not  concerned.  It  will  escape  no 
one  that  the  picture  of  the  girl  with  her  long  golden 
hair  falling  down  the  tower  and  into  the  branches 
of  the  willow  is  saturated  with  the  atmosphere  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelites,  and  the  same  is  obvious  of 
many  other  pictures  in  the  marionette  dramas. 
This  is  not  astonishing,  for  Maeterlinck  had  covered 
the  walls  of  his  study  (a  friend  of  his  in  those 
days  tells  me)  with  pictures  from  Walter  Crane's 
books  for  children ;  and  he  had  brought  them 
nearer  to  his  own  dream  by  framing  them  under 
green-tinted  glass.  It  is  astonishing  altogether 
what  an  influence  Walter  Crane  and  Kate  Green- 
away  have  had  on  the  Belgian  symbolists ;  to  this 
very  day  the  Belgian  poets,  if  they  are  discussing 
British  art,  will   speak  first   of  these  two  artists. 

It  would  be  easy  to  exaggerate  the  influence  of 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

the    Pre-Raphaelite    poetry :    so   far   as    my   own 

knowledge   goes,   only    Maeterlinck,    Charles    van 

Lerberghe,   Mockel,  and   Andr^  Fontainas   knew 

English  sufficiently  well  to  be  able  to  appreciate 

Rossetti's  poetry.    But  some  scholar  should  write  a 

thesis  on  the  influence  of  Walter  Crane  and  Kate 

Greenaway,  whose  art  needed  no  translation.  .  .  . 

Alladine  et  Palomides  symbolises  the  idea  that 

man  is  apt  to  dream  himself  into  an  unreal  world. 

Happiness  is  a  mirage.     We  seem,  in  our  moments 

of  enchanted  delight,  to  be  prisoned  in  a  great  blue 

vault  ablaze  with  jewels  and  wreathed  with  roses ; 

but  let  a  ray  of  the  pitiless  light  of  truth  shine  in 

through  the  roof  and  the  jewels  lose  their  glitter 

and  the  roses  are  seen  to  be  the  phosphorescent 

stains  of  decaying  rubbish.     Far   more  successful 

in  execution  is  Interior,  a  dramatic  tour  de  force 

which  dispenses   with  action  and  is  somewhat  in 

the  nature  of  a  peep-show  interpreted  by  outsiders 

as   the   pantomime   proceeds.     It  is  probably  the 

best  thing  that  Maeterlinck  has  done  :  less  charged 

with  poetry  and  mystery  than  several  of  the  other 

dramas,   but  more  compact  and   poignant.     From 

a  garden  we  look  into  a  lamp-lit  room   where  a 

176 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

family  are  sitting,  resting  in  the  peace  of  the 
evening.  One  of  the  daughters  of  the  family  has 
drowned  herself,  and  an  old  man  has  come  in 
advance  of  the  corpse  to  break  the  news.  From 
the  garden  we  see  him  enter  the  house,  and  by 
the  movements  of  the  family  we  see  the  effect  of 
his  news. 

The  Death  of  Tintagiles  is  the  most  harrowing 
as  it  is  the  most  eerie  of  Maeterlinck's  dramas. 
In  an  old  castle  in  a  deep  valley  whelmed  with 
shadow  (the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death) 
dwells  an  old  Queen.  She  has  sent  over  the  sea 
for  Tintagiles,  a  little  boy  whose  two  sisters,  who 
have  always  lived  in  the  castle,  guess  that  she  in- 
tends to  kill  him.  Even  in  sleep  they  hold  him 
in  their  arms ;  and  it  is  when  they  are  asleep  that 
the  Queen's  servants  snatch  the  child  from  them. 
One  of  the  sisters  follows  to  the  end  of  a  corridor, 
which  is  closed  by  a  massive  iron  door,  on  which 
in  her  desperation  she  smashes  the  lamp  she  carries 
and  scratches  the  nails  from  her  fingers.  Behind 
the  door  she  hears  the  boy  crying  that  hands  are 
at  his  throat;  and  then  she  hears  the  fall  of  a 
little  body.     We  are  in  exile  here  in  the  Valley 

177  M 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  the  play  suggests ;  we 
are  at  the  mercy  of  a  grim  and  silent  force,  against 
whose  cruel  will  the  most  frenzied  resistance  is 
vain.  We  must  trail  our  existence  blindly,  with- 
out daring  to  understand  what  happens. 

The  mysticism  which  inspired  these  dramas 
of  Maeterlinck  forms  the  weft  of  his  collection  of 
essays  Le  Trdsor  des  Humbles  (The  Treasure  of 
the  Humble),  which  was  published  in  1896.  The 
essays,  if  they  do  not  carry  conviction,  have  a 
dreamy  charm  and  sometimes  a  wistful  beauty. 
Maeterlinck,  following  Emerson,  preaches  the 
heroism  of  everyday  life ;  unfolds  his  theories 
of  active  and  passive  silence — the  latter  is  silence 
sleeping,  the  former  is  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
and  revives  the  doctrines  of  quietism  to  absolve 
the  soul  of  man  from  the  transient  sins  of  the  body. 
Such  passages  as  the  following  would  not  seem 
so  illogical  as  they  do  if  they  could  be  interpreted 
by  a  learned  commentary  locating  the  theory  in 
the  ecstatic  reveries  of  the  mystics  proper — very 
remote  dreamers  such  as  Ruysbroeck,  whose 
Ornament   of  the   Spirits   Marriage    Maeterlinck 

translated  from  the  old  Flemish : 

178 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

"  What  would  happen  if  our  soul  suddenly  became 
visible  and  had  to  advance  in  the  midst  of  her  assembled 
sisters,  despoiled  of  her  veils,  but  charged  with  her  most 
secret  thoughts,  and  trailing  behind  her  the  most  mys- 
terious acts  of  her  life  that  nothing  could  express  ?  What 
would  she  blush  for  ?  What  would  she  wish  to  hide  ? 
Would  she,  like  a  modest  woman,  cast  the  long  mantle 
of  her  hair  over  the  numberless  sins  of  the  flesh  ?  She 
knew  nothing  of  them,  and  these  sins  have  never  reached 
her.  They  were  committed  a  thousand  leagues  away  from 
her  throne,  and  the  soul  of  the  Sodomite  even  would  pass 
through  the  midst  of  the  crowd  without  suspecting  any- 
thing, and  bearing  in  its  eyes  the  transparent  smile  of  a 
child.  It  had  taken  no  part  in  the  sin,  it  was  pursuing 
its  life  on  the  side  where  light  reigns,  and  it  is  this  life 
alone  that  it  will  remember." 

One  of  the  essays  deals  with  "interior  beauty," 
and  this  doctrine  is  hunted  to  death  in  Aglavaine 
et  Selysette,  the  first  of  Maetedinck's  plays  into 
which  thfe .  senses  intrude,  the  first  of  his  plays 
which,  in  spite  of  some  lingering  beauty  in  the 
character  of  Selysette,  must  be  rejected  as  inclin- 
ing to  be  meretricious.  In  this  play  and  in  most  of 
those  which  follow  the  chief  character  is  an  eman- 
cipated female  with  a  mouth  full  of  very  boring 
talk  about  "  beauty,"  "wisdom,"  and  "happiness." 

Maeterlinck  has  turned  the  corner ;  come  out  of 

179 


Contemporaiy  Belgian  Literature 

the  dark  into  the  sunshine,  say  some ;  left  his 
ivory  tower  of  poetry  for  the  dusty  mart  of  inter- 
national commonplace,  say  others.  At  all  events, 
his  appeal  is  henceforth  more  popular ;  his  artistry 
is  less  exclusive.  Aglavaine  and  Selysette  is  a 
problem  play :  like  Hauptmann's  Lonely  Lives, 
or  (to  go  farther  back)  like  Goethe's  absurd  Stella, 
it  poses  the  question  whether  it  should  not  be 
possible  for  a  man  to  have  two  wives.  Maeterlinck, 
or  rather  Aglavaine,  sees  a  happy  solution  if  the 
two  women  can  manage  to  love  each  other  as  well 
as  the  man ;  in  the  present  play,  it  is  true,  the 
plan  does  not  prove  feasible,  although  the  two 
women  are  on  billing  and  cooing  terms,  for  Sely- 
sette, the  good  little  wife,  kills  herself  to  make  way 
for  the  emancipated  monstrosity.  It  was  disastrous 
for  Maeterlinck's  art  that  Selysette  did  not  act  as 
the  wronged  woman  on  the  stage  is  entitled  to  do, 
for  if  she  had  poisoned  or  stabbed  her  rival  perhaps 
Aglavaine  would  not  have  cropped  up  again  as 
Ariane,  as  Monna  Vanna,  as  Mary  Magdalene. 
Nothing  could  demonstrate  Maeterlinck's  insuffi- 
ciency as  a  dramatist  (in  the  ordinary  accepta- 
tion   of    the    word)   more    than   his   utter   failure, 

i8o 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

as  soon  as  he  abandoned  his  symbolic  puppets 
and  attempted  characters  of  flesh  and  blood,  to 
create  any  other  woman  than  this  barrel-organ 
of  wisdom. 

It  would  appear  that  these  rdles  were  created 
for  Madame  Georgette  Leblanc,  a  French  opera- 
singer  who  made  her  debut  as  an  actress  as  Monna 
Vanna.  To  her  Maeterlinck  dedicated  his  second 
book  of  essays,  Sagesse  et  Destinee  (Wisdom  and 
Destiny),  which  appeared  in  1898.  It  is  a  chain 
of  thoughts  many  of  which  contradict  the  substance 
of  The  Treasure  of  the  Humble.  Whereas  the  latter 
book  had  been  concerned  with  the  unconscious 
and  the  subconscious,  Wisdom  and  Destiny  deals 
mainly  with  the  conscious.  In  The  Treasure  of 
the  Humble  the  essayist  had  spoken  of  "  the 
august,  everyday  life  of  a  Hamlet  .  .  .  ,  who  has 
the  time  to  live  because  he  does  not  act " ;  in 
Wisdom  and  Destiny  we  read  of  "  the  miserable 
blindness  of  Hamlet,"  who  was  responsible  for  the 
tragedy  because  of  his  failure  to  act.  Action 
hinders  life  in  the  first  book ;  in  the  second,  action 
is  accelerated  thinking.     *'  Life  has  no  other  object 

than  death,"   we   had   been  taught ;  now  we  hear 

181 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

that  life  is   more  important  than  death,   and  that 

misfortune     is     less     important     than     happiness. 

Happiness    was    what    humanity    was    made    for, 

and   we   ought   to   have    doctors    to   cure   misery, 

just    as   we    have   doctors   to    cure   illness.       One 

of  the   essays    of    The    Treasure   of  the  Humble 

had    taught  ( in    harmony   with    the    dramas    for 

marionettes)   that  all   existence  is  subject  to  fate, 

and  that  there  is  no  star  of  happiness,  no  destiny 

of   joy.       Now    we    hear    that    if    predestination 

exists,    it   only  exists  in   character,   which  can   be 

modified. 

There  is  a  tendency  among  the  higher  critics 

to   accept,   condescendingly,    The    Treasure  of  the 

Humble,  as  an  expression    of  philosophic  lyrism, 

but  to  reject   Wisdom  and  Destiny  and  the  essays 

collected  in  later  books,  as  an  effeminate  optimism 

quite  as  illogical  as  the   mysticism  of  the  earlier 

essays.    Maeterlinck's  optimism  is  certainly  languid, 

and  often  unconvincing  ;    and  optimism  should  be 

invigorating    and    proof    against    the   assaults    of 

amateur    argument.      Nevertheless,     Wisdom,    and 

Destiny,  and  all  Maeterlinck's  popular  philosophy, 

has  a   distinct,    if  transient   value.     It  sets   up   a 

182 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

plausible  code  of  conduct  which  can  be  partly 
followed  even  by  people  who  do  not  want  to  make 
themselves  ridiculous  by  posing  as  "  sages."  It 
fights  deep-rooted  prejudices.  It  is  anti-ascetic 
— a  morbid  virtue  may  be  more  harmful  than 
a  healthy  vice,  it  tells  us.  It  makes  for  will- 
power :  if  we  cannot  divert  events,  we  can  at 
all  events  decide  what  form  these  events  shall 
take  within  ourselves.  We  are  the  masters  of 
our  fate.  .  .  . 

In  Le  Temple  Enseveli  (The  Buried  Temple), 
Le  Double  J ardin  (The  Double  Garden),  L' Intelli- 
gence des  Fleurs  (Life  and  Flowers),  this  unctuous 
optimism  (for  all  his  hatred  of  the  Jesuits  Maeter- 
linck has  never  rid  himself  of  their  manner)  is 
developed  in  the  direction  of  a  faith  in  the  future 
which  tallies  with  that  of  Verhaeren.  The  future 
is  full  of  bounties  which  the  genius  of  man  shall 
bring  to  the  light.  The  pivot  of  the  world  seemed 
to  us  of  old  to  be  formed  of  spiritual  powers ;  to- 
day we  know  that  it  is  made  of  purely  material 
energies.  We  shall  solve  the  riddle  of  existence 
by  studying  concrete  things.     We  shall  do  as  the 

flowers  do,  strain  upwards   from   the  dark  soil  to 

183 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

a  blossoming  in  the  light.  What  religions  call 
divine  is  the  brain  of  man. 

But  in  animals  and  flowers  and  plants  we  can 
trace  the  intelligence  which  is  supreme  in  ourselves  ; 
and  in  La  Vie  des  Abeilles  (The  Life  of  the  Bee) 
Maeterlinck  shows  us  what  is  most  important  in  our 
own  substance,  that  extraordinary  matter  of  the 
brain  which  transfigures  blind  necessity,  organises 
and  multiplies  life  and  makes  it  more  beautiful,  and 
checks  the  obstinate  force  of  death.  The  bees  are 
socialists,  for  in  the  hive  the  individual  is  nothing. 
The  hive  of  to-day  is  perfect,  though  pitiless  ;  it 
merges  the  individual  in  the  republic.  The  bees 
have  will-power,  which  subordinates  everything  to 
the  future. 

La  Mort  (Death)  is  probably  the  least  satisfy- 
ing of  Maeterlinck's  books  of  essays,  though  it 
procured  him  the  honour  (and  the  advertisement) 
of  being  placed  on  the  Index.  He  shocked  many 
people  by  pleading  that  doctors  should  have  power 
and  discretion  to  end  a  patient's  life  wherever  hope 
was  impossible,  and  others  by  proclaiming  that 
if  the  punishment  for  not  believing  in  the  God  of 

the  Bible  is  eternal   damnation,  this  is  a   far  less 

184 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

punishment  than  being  compelled  to  endure  the 
presence  through  eternity  of  such  a  tyrant. 

Of  Maeterlinck's  plays  other  than  those  which 
have  been  discussed  only  Monna  Vanna  (1902) 
and  L'Oiseau  Bleu  (1909)  deserve  study.  Joyzelle 
(1903)  is  a  tangle  of  absurdities ;  Mary  Magdalene 
(19 10)  is  even  worse  than  Paul  Heyse's  play  on  the 
same  subject,  from  which  it  unblushingly  borrows. 

Monna  Vanna  owes  a  great  deal  of  its  reputa- 
tion in  this  country  to  the  fact  that  its  production 
is  forbidden.  The  reason  is  apparently  that  in 
one  scene  the  heroine  is  understood  to  be  naked 
under  her  cloak,  which  the  course  of  the  action 
may  compel  her  to  cast  off  at  any  moment.  Of 
course  the  Lord  Chamberlain  would  know,  if  he 
read  the  play,  that  she  does  not  go  farther  than 
making  a  movement  to  throw  her  cloak  aside ; 
but  the  audience  might  have  to  endure  an  un- 
healthy tension.  Whether  Maeterlinck  calculated 
on  this  tension  or  not,  is  not  clear ;  but  the  ascetic 
Maeterlinck  of  the  first  period  would  not  have 
conceived  the  situation.  The  motive  of  the  play, 
that  a  woman  may  nobly  sacrifice  her  chastity  to 

save  a  beleaguered  city,  is  repulsive,  but  sufficiently 

185 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

harmless  in  its  presentation ;  and  Monna  Vanna 
must  be  condemned  rather  on  the  score  of  being 
tedious  than  of  being  obscene. 

As  to  The  Blue  Bird,  opinions  differ  strangely. 
To  some  it  is  a  charming  allegory,  full  of  the 
deepest  meaning  and  of  truths  forcefully  conveyed 
even  to  simple  minds ;  to  others  it  is  a  hodge- 
podge of  commonplace  and  obese  complacency. 
It  is  at  all  events  a  palatable  epitome  of  the  doc- 
trines elaborated  by  Maeterlinck  in  his  essays,  spun 
round  the  main  theme  that  the  blue  bird  of  happi- 
ness, often  sought  in  the  distances  of  romance,  is 
only  to  be  found  at  home. 

One  should  be  chary  of  attaching  too  much 
importance  to  the  attacks  on  Maeterlinck  which 
are  the  fashion  in  certain  places.  It  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  hall-mark  of  mediocrity  to  have  been 
awarded  the  Nobel  Prize  for  literature,  although, 
it  is  true,  there  would  be  some  grounds  for  the 
assertion.  But  neither  must  the  reaction  be  ignored 
as  transient,  for  there  is  point  in  many  of  the 
arguments  by  which  the  Maeterlinck  of  the  second 
phase  is  assailed.      The  greatest  blow  was  dealt 

by    Louis    Dumont  -  Wilden,    in   an    essay    which 

i86 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

appeared  in  La  Nouvelle  Revue  Frangaise,  and  is 
now   reprinted   in   L'Esprit   Europden.       Literary- 
glory,  says  this  most   pungent  of   Belgian   critics 
(who,   by  the  way,  is  like  Maeterlinck   himself  a 
native  of  Ghent),  is  conferred  by  an  61ite  of  readers ; 
but  the  ^lite  has  gradually  escaped  from  Maeter- 
linck's  seductive   influence.      The   mysticism   and 
pessimism  of  the  earlier  books  had  the  fascination 
of  rare  poetry ;  but  the  optimism  which  so   con- 
fidently  pervades   the   later   essays  is    a  soothing 
syrup  which  is  no  food  for  men.     Maeterlinck  had 
for  a  time  dreamed  himself  into  the  poetic  atmos- 
phere of  the  symbolists,  but  the  formula  of  his  art, 
distinguished  and   new  as  it  was,  only  permitted 
him  a  restricted  range  of  very  simple  and  primitive 
feelings  which  were   soon  exhausted,   and   in   the 
end  the  comfortable  complacency  of  the   Belgian 
middle  classes  drew  him  back  into  his  native  ele- 
ment.      Now  he  settled   down    to  grind  out   his 
"  philosophy    without    tears "    to   a    public   whose 
dearest  wish  is  to  believe    "  that  the   first  of  all 
duties  is  to  be  happy."      "Of  course,"  continues 
Dumont-Wilden,  "one  must  do  justice  to  his  ample 

rhetoric  laden  with  images,  and  admit  that  it  has 

187 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

sometimes  the  cradling  charm  of  a  beautiful  sermon. 
However,  as  the  work  proceeds,  the  design  takes 
shape.  All  that  is  painful  is  avoided.  Maeter- 
linck, very  wise  by  this  time,  has  become  the 
moralist  of  the  very  wise.  He  is  the  charitable 
sage  of  ordinary  days  and  ordinary  people.  To 
those  who  do  not  go  to  mass  his  books  are  what 
manuals  of  devotion  are  to  the  pious.  He  is  the 
Doctor  All's-for-the-Best  of  souls  without  piety. 
He  satisfies  that  need  of  religion  which  survives 
the  decadence  of  religions ;  by  means  of  a  vague 
idealism  purged  of  faith  he  fabricates  an  ideal  for 
positivists,  offers  a  shadow  of  the  divine  to  those 
who  have  resolved  to  dispense  with  the  divine." 

All  this  is  not  without  plausibility ;  but  it  is 
evidently  quite  as  easy  to  under-estimate  Maeter- 
linck as  to  over-estimate  him.  The  fact  probably 
is  that  Maeterlinck — an  ascetic,  even  if  a  calcu- 
lating ascetic,  by  nature — has  been  unfortunate 
in  the  shaping  of  his  life,  and  too  submissive  in 
temperament  to  preserve  the  originality  which  un- 
doubtedly marks  his  work  as  far  as  The  Treasure  of 
the  Humble.     Aglavaine  and  Selysette  was  nothing 

less  than  a  catastrophe.     It  ended  him  as  a  dramatist 

i88 


Maurice  Maeterlinck 

in  the  running  for  a  front  place  among  the  world's 
dramatists.  To  put  the  matter  in  a  nutshell,  his 
genius  was  killed  by  "happiness."  His  doom  as 
an  artist  was  sealed  when  he  gave  up  dreaming 
in  order  to  "  live."  Since  then  the  world  has  been 
too  much  with  him.  .  .  . 


189 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   SYMBOLIST   POETS 

There  is  no  distinction  to  be  made  between  the 

Belgian    symbolists    and    the    French    symbolists 

except  that  the  Belgians,  true   to   the  doctrine  of 

individualism    which    is    one    of  the    main    tenets 

of    the    symbolist   school,   write   poetry    which    is 

unmistakably  Belgian.     The  poetry  of  the  Belgian 

symbolists  is  the  poetry  of  Belgian  moods. 

Of  no  Belgian  poet  is  this  more  true  than  of 

Georges    Rodenbach,    although   he   was    the    only 

Belgian  poet   who   has   been  accepted  in  Paris  at 

his  actual  value.     Born  at  Tournai  in  1855,  he  was 

brought   up  at  Bruges  and  Ghent,   and   took   his 

doctor's  degree  in  jurisprudence  in  the  latter  city. 

He  practised  for  some  time  in  Brussels,   but  left 

Belgium  in   1887,  and  settled  in  Paris,  where  he 

died    in    1898.     A    handsome   man,    a   dandy,    an 

aesthete,  a  causeur,  he  had  become  a  favourite  in 

Parisian  drawing-rooms ;  he  was  an  intimate  friend 

190 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

of  Edmond  de  Goncourt  and  Stephane  Mallarme ; 
and  his  melancholy  poetry,  which  kept  the  Par- 
nassian form  while  creating  a  new  atmosphere  by 
a  discreet  symbolism,  had  a  wide  circle  of  admirers 
among  those  to  whom  the  more  uncompromising 
symbolist  poets  were  stertorous  barbarians. 

But  though  he  made  himself  at  home  in  Paris, 
he  remained  a  Fleming  to  the  end ;  and  his  poetry 
is  Flemish  through  and  through.  He  is  a  Flemish 
mystic,  quite  as  much  as  Maeterlinck  was  in  his 
early  years.  He  is  haunted  by  Flemish  images ; 
his  soul  is  ever  dreaming  in  an  old  Flemish  city 
where  the  stricken  stone  of  the  grey  houses  is 
mirrored  in  green  canals  lit  by  the  white  plumage 
of  stately  swans;  he  longs  for  the  infinite  silence 
of  Bruges-la- Morte,  the  city  that  was  buried  in 
the  tomb  of  her  quays  when  the  pulse  of  the  sea 
was  stayed  in  her  and  the  arteries  of  her  canals 
grew  cold  ;  he  has  lost  his  religious  faith,  but  at 
heart  he  is  still  a  worshipper  in  the  old  Catholic 
fanes  whose  steeples  in  their  stone  frocks  project 
their  shadow  along  the  cobbled  streets,  in  the  city 
where  from  innumerable  convents  there  breathes  a 

cold  scorn  of  the  secret  roses  of  the  flesh,  where 

191 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

at  every  street  corner,  in  shrines  of  glass  or  wood, 
stand  statues  of  the  Virofin  clad  in  velvet  cloaks. 
**  Toute  cit6  est  un  ^tat  d'dme,"  he  says  ;  and  his 
own  soul  he  identifies  with  Bruges.  Above  all, 
he  finds  a  dream-peace  in  the  b^guinages,  those 
sanctuaries  within  the  sanctuary,  those  haunts  of 
quiet  in  the  quiet  town,  with  their  red-paved  en- 
closures, where  the  priest,  when  the  bell  calls  the 
bdguines  to  evensong,  seems  like  the  Saviour  in  a 
garden  of  virgins. 

With  such  an  obsession  as  this,  his  books  could 
not  be  other  than  morbid.  It  is  poetry  in  a  closed 
room,  where  the  light  only  filters  through  muslin 
curtains ;  it  is  a  music  awed  by  the  foreboding  of 
death ;  it  is  a  gallery  of  grey  tints.  It  is  all  filled 
with  that  sickness  of  life  which  was  an  attitude  of 
the  symbolists ;  with  the  pessimism  which  fermented 
into  a  fever  of  hallucination  in  Maeterlinck  and 
brought  Verhaeren  to  the  verge  of  (literary)  mad- 
ness. Le  Regne  du  Silence  (1891)  and  Les  Vies 
Encloses  (1896),  the  volumes  in  which  the  best  of 
Rodenbach's  poetry  is  contained,  must  ever  be 
monuments  of  Belgian  art  by  the  side  of  Serres 

Chaudes  and    the    three    volumes   of  Verhaeren's 

192 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

pathological  period,  even  though  the  cult  of  virility 
and  optimism,  which  has  in  our  days  overcome 
that  fin-de-siecle  despondency  of  the  symbolists, 
refuses  to  be  spellbound  by  the  subtle  imagery 
and  trailing  rhythms  of  this  poet  of  yesteryear. 
What  fascination  there  is  in  Rodenbach's  lethargic 
reveries  may  be  gathered  from  this  one  poem : 

"  You  are  my  sisters,  souls  that  dwell  apart, 
^In  dreams  half  dreamt  in  listlessness  of  heart, 
Cloistered  in  towns  whose  glories  have  grown  pale, 
Old  towns  that  drowse  along  their  rivers  frail ; 
O  souls  whose  silence  is  a  worshipping ; 
Souls  pierced  by  noise ;  who  love  no  other  thing 
Save  that  which  might  have  been  and  shall  not  be ; 
Fed  with  the  Host  and  Holy  Chrism  are  ye, 
Mystics  whose  sad  youth  dreamed  of  sailing  hence 
To  some  far  city,  fabulous,  immense, 
But  now  dream  only  with  these  waters  wan, 
These  waters  slow  that  silence  swoons  upon.  .  .   . 

And  round  you  rolls  itself  the  angelus, 

As  round  a  spinning-wheel  the  soft  wool  does  ! 

Sisters  of  mine  more  than  of  any  other. 

Sisters  of  mine  are  you  in  Silence,  our  Mother  ! " 

Rodenbach    sings   only   of    depressing   things. 

He  yields  to  his  depression  in  the  same  measure 

193  N 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

as  Verhaeren  resists  his.  Characteristic  of  each 
poet  are  the  verses  they  have  dedicated  to  the 
rain.  In  Verhaeren's  vision  the  rain  is  a  force 
sinister  but  wild  with  energy : 

"  The  water  drips  hour  after  hour, 
The  spouts  gush,  and  the  trees  shower.  .  .  . 

'  '  '  /' 

Rivers  o'er  rotten  dikes  are  brimming 

Upon  the  meadows  where  drowned  hay  is  swimming  ; 

The  wind  is  whipping  walnut  trees  and  alders. 

And  big  black  oxen  wading  stand 

Deep  in  the  water  of  the  polders, 

And  bellow  at  the  writhen  sky.   .    .  ." 

Rodenbach's  vision  is  weary  and  anaemic  : 

"  O  the  rain  !     O  the  rain  !     O  the  slow  water  thread, 
Which  Time  unwinds  from  his  black  spindles  still. 
As  though  the  years  had  kept  their  tears  to  shed. 
While  on  young  autumn  leans  the  evening,  sick  and  ill! 
O  the  rain  !     O  the  slow  skeins  of  the  water  thread ! 

"  Who  shall  say  the  sombre  mourning  of  the  firmament  ? 
Cemetery  road  where  like  dirge  verses 
Murk  clouds  move  somnolent. 
Corpses  of  stars  jumbled  along  in  hearses, 

Who  shall  say  the  sombre  mourning  of  the  firmament  ? 

194 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

"  On  dark  and  empty  streets  of  mourning  the  rain  drips, 
Dripping  for  ever  through  our  chill  remorse, 
Like  tears  for  dead  things  ever  on  our  lips, 
Like  tears  falling  from  the  closed  eye  of  a  corse, 
On  dark  and  empty  streets  of  mourning  the  rain  drips. 

"  The  rain  is  over  our  old  dreams  a  net, 
And  in  its  water  meshes  prisoner  takes 
Their  wings,  until  these  songsters  die  of  fret, 
Of  longing  for  the  light,  of  lingering  aches, 
The  rain  is  over  our  old  dreams  a  net. 

"  Like  a  wet  flag  drooping  against  its  pole. 
With  griefs  awakening  that  have  long  been  quenched, 
The  dark  rain  penetrates  and  soaks  our  soul. 
Until  it  is  a  rag  discoloured,  drenched, 
Like  a  wet  rag  drooping  against  its  pole." 


This  last  image,  of  a  soul  like  a  wet  rag,  is 

sufficiently  curious ;  and  Rodenbach's  work  teems 

with   such   ideas,   which   as   a   rule,   however,  are 

rendered    tolerable    by    the   general   mood    of  the 

poem.     To  say,  for  instance,  that  the  moon  in  the 

clouds  is  like  a  bosom  peering  forth   from  white 

linen  seems  to  be  as  extravagant  as  that  jocular 

comparison  of  one  of  Mr.   Wells's  heroines  who, 

when  she  first  donned  evening  dress,  felt  like  a  ham 

195 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

in  its  frill ;  but  in  his  ^oem  "  The  Milky  Moon " 
Rodenbach  makes  the  idea  plausible  enough  : 

"  The  moon  is  showing,  in  the  sky  of  night, 
A  chaste  bosom,  as  a  nurse  might  do, 
To  feed  the  caprice  of  those  dreamers  who 
Love  to  be  drinking  in  its  milky  light. 

"  Enough  to  nourish  me,  who  also  lie 
And  sleep  by  night  upon  this  ample  breast 
Of  recommencements  ruined  and  distressed.   .  .  . 
And  like  fresh  linen  round  it  is  the  sky." 

Rodenbach's  best  poems  are  those  in  which  he 
can  take  his  images  from  the  architecture  and  the 
specific  atmosphere  of  Flemish  towns,  as  in  this 
of  "Belfry  Petals": 

"  In  the  languorous  morning  of  a  country  town 
The  belfry  chimes,  chimes  with  the  tender  dyes 
Of  the  dawn  looking  with  a  sister's  eyes. 
The  belfry  chimes,  and  on  the  roofs  throws  down 
Its  pale,  diaphanous  music  flower  by  flower, 
Crumbling  them  on  black  gables  like  handfuls 
Of  dewy  sounds  the  wind  sweeps  up  and  culls, 
Music  of  morning  falling  from  the  tower. 
Like  faded  wreaths  far  falling  wet  with  tears, 
Invisible  lilies  falling  from  the  yore, 
In  such  slow  petals,  petals  pale  and  frore. 
They  seem  shed  on  the  dead  brow  of  the  years." 
196 


II 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

Or  in  "Old  Bells": 

"  Bells  I  have  known  that  noiseless  went  their  way, 
Poor  bells  that  lived  in  little  sordid  turrets, 
And  seemed  to  be  lamenting  that  their  spirits 
Could  never  be  at  rest  by  night  or  day. 

"  Bells  of  a  suburb,  coughing,  broken  down  ; 
Old  women  visiting  at  evening's  hour 
Each  other,  you  had  said,  from  tower  to  tower. 
Tottering  along  in  their  worn-out  bronze  gown." 

Rodenbach's  Bruges-la-Morte  is  a  famous  novel. 
Everybody  who  visits  Bruges  is  supposed  to  have 
it  with  him,  in  order  to  read  himself  into  the 
Stimmung  of  the  town.  The  book  does  indeed 
suggest  an  atmosphere,  but  only  by  violent  images, 
too  vivid  and  rare  for  prose.  Thus,  slander  in 
dead  cities  grows  like  the  grass  among  the  cobble- 
stones; all  day  long  the  belfry  bells  swing  their 
black  unseen  censers,  whence  a  smoke  of  sound 
unrolls ;  the  church  organ  spreads  out  a  dark 
velvet ;  the  gables  of  the  houses  are  in  the  shape 
of  crosses  ;  the  wind  is  filled  with  bells  ;  the  shadow 
of  the  church  towers  is  too  heavy ;  the  hero  goes 

to  the  hospital  of  St.  John  to  bathe  his  feverish 

197 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

retina  in  its  white  walls ;  the  gardens  in  the  court- 
yards of  the  hospital  are  padded  with  box.  These 
images  (some  of  them  absurd  in  translation,  but 
not  unnatural  in  the  setting  of  the  original)  are 
varied  with  a  true  poet's  skill ;  they  change  as  the 
moods  change. 

As  to  the  theme  of  the  novel,  it  is  negligible. 
It  is  for  the  sake  of  the  poetry  that  the  book  is 
read.  Nay,  the  theme  is  more  than  negligible, 
it  is  ridiculous.  Hugues  has  lost  his  wife,  whom 
he  loved  passionately.  While  she  was  lying  dead 
he  had  cut  off  the  long  plaits  of  her  hair ;  and, 
settling  with  his  mourning  in  Bruges,  he  keeps 
the  hair  in  a  glass  case.  After  five  years  he  meets 
a  woman  in  the  streets  who  seems  to  him  the  very 
image  of  his  dead  wife.  He  accosts  her ;  and 
soon  she  is  his  mistress.  But — if  she  has  the 
body,  she  has  not  the  soul  of  his  dead  wife.  He 
denies  her  admittance  to  the  house  where  he  keeps 
the  plait  of  hair ;  but  at  last  she  finds  a  pretext 
to  inspect  the  mysterious  rooms,  sees  the  hair, 
lifts  the  glass  case,  and  brandishes  the  plait  aloft. 
To  Hugues  it  seems  a  sacrilege  that  this  vulgar 

actress  should  touch  the  relic  of  his  dead  saint ; 

198 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

and — he  strangles  her  with  the  tresses  she  has 
profaned. 

The  scene  of  another  novel  of  Rodenbach's, 
Le  Carillonneur,  is  likewise  in  Bruges.  The  hero, 
Joris  Borluut,  is  an  architect,  whose  life  is  devoted 
to  restoring  the  crumbling  masonry  of  the  city. 
In  his  love  of  its  far-famed  chimes  he  also  acts  as 
a  bellringer.  His  wife's  sister  is  in  love  with  him, 
and  one  day  she  yields  to  her  passion  when  under 
the  influence  of  religious  suggestion.  The  rest 
of  the  book  describes  her  repentance,  and  that 
of  Borluut. 

There  was  for  some  years  a  cult  of  Rodenbach. 
It  was  followed  by  the  inevitable  reaction ;  and 
some  of  us  in  recent  years  have  been  told  not  to 
read  him  at  all.  His  best  friends  have  not  been 
loyal  to  his  memory ;  they  have  allowed  him  to 
fall  into  neglect  without  protest.  He  is  one  of 
those  poets  who  lend  themselves  to  cheap  criti- 
cism ;  he  wrote  a  great  deal  of  poor  stuff,  as  all 
pampered  poets  do ;  but  he  has  written  a  certain 
number  of  flawless  poems ;  he  has  created  a 
legend,  the  legend  of  "the  dead  city,"  of  an  ideal 

Flanders  dying  in  devout  prayer ;  and  he  (great 

199 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

talker  as  he  was)  devised  before  Maeterlinck  a 
ritual  of  silence  which  is  ever  a  quiet  refuge  for 
hearts  sick  of  what  sometimes  seems  the  blatant, 
dusty  optimism  of  the  present  fashion.  Some  day, 
when  people  are  sick  of  violence,  there  will  be  a 
Rodenbach  revival. 

Georges  Rodenbach,  as  everybody  knows,  was 
Verhaeren's  schoolfellow  at  the  College  of  Sainte- 
Barbe  in  Ghent.  A  few  years  later  three  other 
future  poets  were  schoolfellows  in  the  same  un- 
willing nursery  of  Belgian  verse.  These  were 
Maurice  Maeterlinck,  Charles  van  Lerberghe,  and 
Gr^goire  Le  Roy. 

Charles  van  Lerberghe  will  perhaps  never  be 
appreciated  as  he  should  be  in  English-speaking 
lands.  He  is  a  poets'  poet.  .  .  .  While  we  are 
lauding  Maeterlinck  and  Verhaeren  to  the  skies, 
the  other  Belgian  poets  smile.  Ask  a  Belgian 
writer  who  is  the  greatest  poet  of  his  nation,  and 
the  answer  is  pretty  sure  to  be :  Charles  van 
Lerberghe.  / 

Of  course,  it  is  rather  foolish  to  fix  the  values 
of  poets  in  superlatives.  So  much  would  depend, 
for  instance,  on  what  one  means  by  "poet."     Ver- 

200 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

haeren,  no  doubt,  is  a  greater  writer  than  van 
Lerberghe — he  has  a  vaster  sweep,  he  is  nearer 
the  beating  heart  of  the  present,  he  appeals  to 
multitudes,  whereas  van  Lerberghe  is  the  poet  of 
a  few.  The  great  mass  of  Verhaeren's  poetry  is 
rhetoric ;  in  Charles  van  Lerberghe,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  is  not  a  trace  of  rhetoric.  Van  Ler- 
berghe's  lyrics  cannot  be  recited,  they  can  only 
be  sung.  Victor  Hugo  and  Verhaeren  are  im- 
mense poets ;  Verlaine  and  van  Lerberghe  are 
intense  poets.  .  .  It  is  the  eternal  rivalry  between 
the  popular  poet  and  the  divine  poet,  between 
Byron  and  Shelley. 

Charles  van  Lerberghe  was  born  in  Ghent  in 
1 86 1.  His  parents  died  while  he  was  quite  a  boy, 
and  Maeterlinck's  uncle  then  acted  as  his  guardian. 
He  first  attracted  attention  by  the  verses  he  con- 
tributed to  La  PUiade  in  1886;  and  the  most 
fascinating  poems  in  Le  Parnasse  de  la  Jeune 
Belgique  are  his.  In  Paris  he  became  known 
when,  in  1892,  his  little  play  "for  marionettes," 
Les  Flaireurs,  was  acted  at  the  Th^dtre  d'Art. 
It  had  appeared  in  La   Wallonie  for  1889,  just  a 

year  before   Maeterlinck's  U Intruse   appeared    in 

201 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

the  same  review.  The  two  dramas  have  much  in 
common :  the  dialogue  is  vaguely  similar,  though 
much  more  rapid  and  energetic  in  van  Lerberghe's 
play ;  and  the  main  idea,  the  coming  of  Death  to 
a  sick  person,  is  the  same  in  both.  Charges  of 
plagiarism  have  been  made  against  both  writers, 
but  particularly  against  Maeterlinck,  who  accord- 
ing to  the  innuendoes  of  some  writers  derived  all 
that  makes  his  originality  from  his  bosom  friend. 
The  truth  is  known  only  to  Maeterlinck  himself 
and  to  Albert  Mockel,  the  custodian  of  van 
Lerberghe's  memoirs.  The  truth  no  doubt  is  that 
the  two  friends  discussed  the  idea,  and  treated  it 
by  common  accord  each  in  his  own  way.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Maeterlinck  helped  van  Lerberghe 
in  the  composition  of  his  play :  one  of  the  most 
vivid  touches — the  stage  direction  :  *'  The  blind  is 
raised,  the  window  is  lit  up,  and  the  shadow  of 
the  hearse  is  projected  on  the  wall " — is  by 
Maeterlinck. 

Van  Lerberghe  was  a  desultory  student,  but 
his  mind  was  very  scholarly.  He  had  periods  of 
intense  and  chambered  study,  and,  apart  from  his 
university   degree   of  Doctor    of  Philosophy,    ac- 

202 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

quired  at  Brussels,  his  reading  of  the  ancients  had 
made  him  a  good  classic.  (Most  of  the  Belgian 
writers  are  hardly  scholars  in  the  English  sense, 
though  practically  every  one  of  them  has  all  the 
history  of  art  at  his  fingers'  ends.)  In  1898 
appeared  his  first  volume  of  verse,  Entrevisions, 
which  at  once  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of 
contemporary  lyrists.  They  are  lyrics  which  by 
a  selection  of  titles  suggest  the  atmosphere  of  the 
Song  of  Songs.  But  they  are  more  than  love- 
songs.  In  Entrevisions  Love  himself  is  prisoned 
in  music.  It  is  all  a  music  of  suggestion ;  nothing 
is  clearly  expressed.  The  images  are  sensuous ; 
but  the  feeling  they  awaken  is  not  sensuous.  Love 
is  etherealised ;  the  body  is  a  shadow ;  here  soul 
calls  to  soul. 

After  the  publication  of  Entrevisions  van  Ler- 
berghe  travelled  considerably.  He  stayed  in 
London,  'and  there,  probably,  he  read  Rossetti, 
whose  influence  on  his  work  is  discernible.  But 
the  chief  formative  influence  in  his  mature  work 
is  that  of  his  stay  in  Italy.  On  his  way  there  he 
made  a  halt  in  Berlin,  where  Stefan  George  took 

him  about.    Some  of  the  letters  he  wrote  on  this 

203 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

tour  have  been  published ;  ^  they  are  exceedingly- 
interesting,  full  of  malice  and  very  much  to  the 
point,  not  in  the  least  nebulous,  as  from  his  poetry 
one  would  have  expected  them  to  be.  Here  is  an 
impression  of  Berlin  : 

"  I  rather  like  Berlin.  It  is  what  they  call  in  German 
eine  grosse  Stadt ;  freely  translated,  a  gross  town.  The 
monuments  are  pompous,  classical,  imperial  ;  the  streets 
are  symmetrical,  populous,  interminable,  stupid,  but  amus- 
ing. The  famous  *  Under  den  Linden '  is  a  vast  boule- 
vard where  I  did  in  fact  notice  various  trees.  This 
morning  I  saw  something  fine :  soldiers  returning  from 
the  Kaiser's  palace,  but  what  soldiers  !  Giants  (at  least 
they  seemed  so  in  the  fog)  wrapped  in  long  cloaks,  and 
with  metal  helmets  surmounted  by  eagles  with  spread 
wings.  They  were  carrying  white  banners  with  golden 
eagles,  which  were  crowned,  I  don't  know  why,  with 
laurel  leaves.  A  scene  from  the  middle  ages.  And  this 
is  the  twentieth  century.  But  all  that  relates  to  the  army 
here  has  a  real  greatness.  They  have  put  a  lot  of  their 
genius  into  that." 

In  Rome,  where  he  stayed  seven  months,  he 
worked  at  his  new  volume  of  verse.  La  Chanson 
d^ve  (The  Song  of  Eve),  and  his  comedy  Pan. 
Albert    Mockel    joined    him,    and    they   went   to- 

^  La  Vie  Intelleciuelle,  Jan.,  Feb.,  March  191 3. 
204 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

gether  to  Florence,  where,  in  the  beautiful  sur- 
roundings of  an  old  manor  where  Galileo  once  lived, 
La  Chanson  cCEve  made  progress.  One  of  van 
Lerberghe's  letters  throws  light  on  the  composition 
of  his  masterpiece : 

"  All  my  poems,  as  Maeterlinck  and  other  people  have 
said,  are  pictures.  My  Song  of  Eve  is  just  as  much 
painted  as  it  is  sung,  so  they  say,  and  they  are  quite 
right.  I  used  to  spend  hours  in  the  morning,  hours  of 
ecstatic  adoration,  before  paintings  like  Botticelli's  Birth 
of  Venus  or  Leonardi's  Annunciation,  and  then  I  would 
return  to  my  Eve's  garden  at  the  Torre  del  Gallo  with 
my  eyes  dazzled." 

On  his  return  to  Belgium  he  obtained  an 
appointment  under  the  Government  as  an  attach^ 
at  the  Mus^e  du  Cinquantenaire,  with  the  magnifi- 
cent salary  of  1200  francs  per  annum!  He  very 
soon  scandalised  his  family  by  relinquishing  this 
position. 

The  Mercure  de  France  treated  him  generously 

enough  when,  on  the    publication  of  La  Chanson 

dhve  in   1904,  they  gave   him  500  francs  for  the 

first  edition ;   but   evidently  he  could    not  hope  to 

live  by  literature.     Pan  was  acted  at  the  Th^dtre 

205 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

de  rCEuvre  and  published  by  the  Mercure  in 
1906,  and  the  comedy  attracted  attention  at  home 
and  abroad ;  but  in  September  of  the  same  year 
van  Lerberghe  was  struck  down  by  the  mental 
illness  which  ended  in  a  tragically  early  death 
a  year  later.  His  family  were  mainly  concerned 
with  saving  his  soul,  which,  as  they  thought,  had 
been  lost  by  the  blasphemies  of  Pan,  and  accord- 
ing to  their  account  he  was  "  converted "  on  his 
deathbed. 

Some  day,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  a  detailed 
biography  of  van  Lerberghe,  together  with  his 
correspondence  and  memoirs,  will  be  issued.  (His 
delightful  Contes,  too,  of  which  several  have  ap- 
peared in  Vers  et  Prose  and  other  journals,  need 
collecting.)  None  of  the  Belgians  is  more  inter- 
esting as  a  man.  He  was  not  at  all  the  angel, 
the  ethereal  dreamer  one  would  imagine  him  to 
be  from  his  poems. 

He  was  a  grown    man,  not   at   all   an   eternal 

cherub  ;  he  was  big  of  bone,  with  the  frame  of  an 

athletic    Englishman,    a   great   eater   and   drinker, 

and  (apparently)  a  great  lover.     Those  who  have 

read  his  verse  and  imagined  their  own  picture  of 

206 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

him  are  bound  to  be  shocked  when  they  first  see 

his  portrait.     He   had    the   appearance   of  a   big, 

awkward  farmer ;  and  he  had  a  habit  of  blushing 

when  spoken  to. 

La  Chanson  cC^ve  is  the  purest  work  of  poetry 

in   Belgian  literature.     There   is  not  a  line  which 

could  be  rendered  in  verse ;  there  is  not  a  stanza 

which  could  even  approximately  be  translated  into 

any  language.     The  poem  must  be  taken  as  it  is, 

with  its  incomparably  musical  rhythms,  its  visions 

of  white  limbs   emerging  for  a  moment  from  the 

morning  mists  in  an  enchanted  garden,  its  delicate 

suggestions  of  the  rapture  and  sadness  of  human 

life   as    determined    by   the    awakening    and    the 

blossoming  and  the  withering   of  love.     It  is  the 

song  of  Eve,  because  Eve  was  woman,  and  woman 

is  the  flower  of  Paradise,  the  fate  of  man.     "It  is 

the  divine  youth  of  the  first  woman,"  says  Albert 

Mockel  in  his  masterly  critique,  "  but  it  is  at  the 

same  time  the  eternal  legend  of  the  maiden  who 

awakens  from  innocence  to  love,  to  the  intoxication 

of  understanding  and  the  sadness  of  knowledge." 

We  have  at  the   commencement    Eve   awakening 

in  the  Garden  of  Eden  to  the  things  around  her, 

207 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

with  which  she  is  one :  she  is  the  sun  that  dazzles 
her  eyes,  she  is  the  flowers  she  breathes,  and  she 
does  not  know  where  she  ends  and  where  she 
begins.  She  is  the  angel  spirit  come  to  a  be- 
wildering earth  from  where  she  knows  not,  and 
we  do  not  ,see  her  in  the  full  light  of  day — she  is 
a  voice  sweetly  singing  the  mysteries  of  existence ; 
we  do  not  see  Eve,  we  see  her  shadow : 

"  In  a  perfume  of  white  roses 
She  sits,  dream-fast ; 

And  the  shadow  is  beautiful  as  though  an  angel  there 
were  glassed. 

"  The  gloam  descends,  the  grove  reposes  ; 
The  leaves  and  branches  through, 
On  the  gold  Paradise  is  opening  one  of  blue. 

"  A  last  faint  wave  breaks  on  the  darkening  shore. 
A  voice  that  sang  just  now  is  murmuring. 
A  murmuring  breath  is  breathing  .  .  .   now  no  more. 

"  In  the  silence  petals  fall.  .  .  ." 

"  Eve  is  everywhere  present,"  says  Jean  Dominique,^ 
"  radiant,  innocent,  and  beautiful.  Angels  guide  her  feet, 
and  they  are  so  eager  to  guard  her  from  ill  that  their 
encircling  wings  meet  round  her  shoulders.  She  speaks, 
and  her  voice,  like  that  of  princesses  in  fairy  tales,  breathes 

^  Le^Thyrse,  March  1913. 
208 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

roses  ;  and  her  laughter  rings  out  in  radiance.  She 
kisses  the  ashes  on  a  bed  of  leaves,  and  her  scented 
breath  kindles  the  flame  again.  .  .  .  Then  Eve  meets 
the  bird  of  Desire.  She  cannot  help  but  follow  it,  she 
is  weary,  but  as  she  approaches  the  bird,  it  flies  farther 
away,  ever  farther  among  the  tree-tops.  For  the  first 
time  she  feels  that  her  smile  withers,  and  the  chaste 
shadow  of  melancholy  falls  across  her  girl's  voice." 

This  is  the  hour  of  temptation.  Danger  is  lurk- 
ing in  the  woods  and  waters,  but  his  hyacinthine 
hair  is  wreathed  with  roses,  and  his  face  is  like  the 
face  of  Love.  She  knows  that  her  own  body  is  a 
garden  of  Eden  flowered  with  all  perfumes  to  call 
thither  the  Elect : 

"  Art  thou  waking,  my  perfume  sunny, 
My  perfume  of  gilded  bees, 
Art  thou  floating  along  the  breeze. 
My  perfume  of  sweet  honey  ? 

"  In  the  hush  of  the  gloam,  when  my  feet 
Roam  through  the  rich  garden-closes. 
Dost  thou  tell  I  am  coming,  thou  smell 
Of  my  lilies,  and  my  warm  roses  ? 

"  Am  I  not  like  in  this  gloam  a 
Cluster  of  fruit  concealed 
By  the  leaves,  and  by  nothing  revealed, 
Save  in  the  night  its  aroma  ? 

209  O 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Does  he  know,  now  the  hour  is  dim, 
That  I  am  half  opening  my  hair, 
Does  he  know  that  it  scents  the  air, 
Does  its  odour  reach  to  him  ? 

"  Does  he  feel  I  am  straining  my  arms  ? 
And  that  the  lilies  of  my  valleys 
Are  dewy  with  passion-balm 
That  for  his  touching  tarries  ?  " 

Men  come  to  her,  and  she  says,  full  of  pity 
and  tenderness  : 

"  They  can  speak  nothing  yet. 
But  often  their  eyes  are  wet : 
I  am  all  things  they  ever  have  desired  .  .   . 
A  dewy  rose  in  the  dawn  am  I,  .  .  . 
They  are  tired,  so  tired.   .   .  . 
They  have  long  been  coming  to  where  I  lie.  .  .  ." 

"  Thus,"  to  continue  Jean  Dominique's  interpretation 
(which  is  all  a- tremble  with  a  loving  penetration),  "  though . 
nothing  has  troubled  the  unconsciousness  and  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  man  and  the  woman,  by  the  same  miracle 
of  nature  that  in  virgin  forests  bends  down  the  flowering 
crown  of  a  tree  over  another  that  it  is  to  fertilise — thus, 
in  this  landscape  of  Eden  a  sacred  song  unites  those  who 
were  created  for  Love  and  Death — and  for  our  sister, 
Melancholy." 

The  third  book,  La  Faute,  bears  this  maxim 

210 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

of  Nietzsche :  All  is  innocence.  Eve  has  not 
sinned,  she  has  fulfilled  the  destiny  of  woman — 
and  man.  Before,  her  eyes  had  seen  the  outer 
world ;  now  her  soul  finds  the  inner  world.  She 
is  complete,  and  she  has  completed  her  mate.  But, 
having  reached  the  height  of  her  ascent,  she  must 
descend — to  Death.  The  shadows  fall  over  Eden, 
and  the  angel  Azrael  comes. 

It  is  a  thankless  criticism  of  La  Chanson  (T Jbve 
to  say  that  it  is  nebulous,  that  the  intention  does 
not  emerge  clearly.  To  those  who  have  an  ear 
for  verbal  music  but  who  are  too  mentally  idle  to 
unravel  the  runes  of  a  symbol,  it  might  have  the 
effect  of  music  without  words.  Even  that  would 
be  something ;  but  those  who  do  not  care  for  the 
obvious  in  poetry  find  much  more  than  subtle 
melodies  in  this  masterpiece  of  a  great  poet. 

There  is  no  obscurity  in  Pan,  at  all  events. 
The  obscurantists  were  quick  to  find  the  meaning, 
and  to  denounce  it.  By  this  comedy,  far  and  away 
the  best  in  Belgian  literature,  van  Lerberghe  made 
himself  impossible  in  official  Belgium  and  in  ortho- 
dox society  (to  which  by  upbringing  he  belonged). 
And  yet  the  play  is  no  more  than  a  rollicking  pre- 

211 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

sentation  of  Pantheism.  Perhaps  van  Lerberghe 
was  the  only  Belgian  poet  of  his  generation  who 
might  have  developed  into  a  great  dramatist ;  the 
characters  of  Pan  at  all  events,  including  the  de- 
lightful bouc  communal,  have  the  red  life's  blood 
of  the  stage.  But  owing  to  its  risky  character 
Pan  can  never  be  a  repertory  play. 

The  name  of  Gr^goire  Le  Roy  is  indissolubly 
associated  with  those  of  Maeterlinck  and  van  Ler- 
berghe. It  was  at  his  house  that  van  Lerberghe 
was  struck  down  in  September  1906  ;  and  it  was 
Le  Roy  who  revealed  Maeterlinck  to  the  circle  of 
La  Pldiade  in  Paris,  when  he  read  his  friend's 
story  The  Massacre  of  the  Innocents  to  them. 
Gr^goire  Le  Roy,  who  was  born  in  1862  in  Ghent, 
has  had  many  irons  in  the  fire,  and  it  is  only  in 
recent  years  that,  obtaining  an  appointment  (after 
official  insults)  as  Librarian  of  the  Acad^mie  Royale 
des  Beaux- Arts  at  Brussels,  he  has  settled  down 
to  write  poems  and  tales.  He  abandoned  juris- 
prudence to  study  painting  (for  a  time  in  Paris)  ; 
he  abandoned  painting  to  be  an  electrical  engineer 
("Gr^goire  I'^lectrique "  van  Lerberghe  calls  him 
quizzingly  in  his  correspondence) ;   and  he  aban- 

212 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

doned  that  profession,  apparently  to  be  a  dreamer. 
In  1887  appeared  his  little  volume  of  verse,  La 
Chanson  du  Soir  (edition  of  twenty  copies — avis 
aux  amateurs  !).  Mon  Cceur  pleure  (T autrefois  fol- 
lowed, in  an  edition  de  luxe,^  in  1889.  These  two 
volumes  are  now  united  in  La  Chanson  du  Pauvre, 
a  not  voluminous  yellow-back  published  by  the 
Mercure  de  France.  It  would  be  idle  to  claim 
too  much  importance  for  these  poems.  They  have 
a  distinctive  charm,  a  cachet  of  pensive  melancholy. 
But,  with  the  exception  of  a  few,  they  are  not 
markedly  original  in  phrasing  or  rhythm.  Gregoire 
Le  Roy  is  the  poet  of  an  attitude  :  he  is  (even  in 
his  earlier  years)  "  the  silvery  sentimentalist  of  old 
age  "  dreaming  of  the  things  of  the  past,  an  eman- 
cipated moralist  offering  sage  counsels  to  incon- 
siderate youth.  One  of  his  poems,  Le  Passi  qui 
File  (The  Spinster  Past),  is  the  favourite  poem  of 
Belgian  reciters  ;  it  is  as  ubiquitous  as  Longfellow's 
Psalm  of  Life  \  more  than  any  other  Belgian  poem 
it  has  become  a  folksong.  It  is  that  rare  thing, 
a  poem  of  simple  and  popular  appeal  written  by 

*  With  drawings  by   Fernand  Khnopff  and  a  frontispiece  by 
Georges  Minne. 

213 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

a  Primitive  Symbolist  (but  Grdgoire  Le  Roy  never 
wrote  Mallarmese — he  adopted  the  stock  figures 
of  speech  and  the  assonances  of  the  symbolist 
tribe,  but  not  their  remoteness  and  complexity)  : 

"  The  old  woman  spins,  and  her  wheel 
Is  prattling  of  old,  old  things ; 
As  though  to  a  doll  she  sings, 
And  memories  over  her  steal. 

"  The  hemp  is  yellow  and  long, 
The  old  woman  spins  the  thread. 
Bending  her  white  weary  head 
Over  the  wheel's  lying  song. 

"  The  wheel  goes  round  with  a  whirl. 
The  yellow  hemp  is  unwound. 
She  turns  it  round  and  round. 
She  is  playing  like  a  girl. 

"  The  yellow  hemp  is  unwound. 
She  sees  herself  a  girl, 
As  blonde  as  the  skeins  that  whirl. 
She  is  dancing  round  and  round. 

"  The  wheel  rolls  round  with  a  whirr. 
And  the  hemp  is  humming  as  well. 
She  hears  an  old  lover  tell 
And  whisper  his  love  for  her. 
214 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

"  Her  tired  hands  rest  above 
The  wheel,  her  spinning  is  done ; 
And  with  the  hemp  are  spun 
Her  memories  of  love." 

For  about  twenty  years  Le  Roy  published  no- 
thing new.  Then  he  became  editor  of  Le  Masque  ; 
and  his  talent  seemed  to  take  on  a  new  lease  of 
youth,  which  enabled  him  to  revive  his  legend  of 
dreamful  eld.  La  Couronne  des  Soirs  (191 1)  has 
a  new  note  of  wise  tenderness,  of  contentment  with 
nature  under  the  very  wings  of  Death. 

This  legendary  greybeard's  recollections  of 
olden  days  have  now  a  dulled  regret  of  physical 
sensations : 

"  My  poor  hands,  so  wan  and  faded, 
Agile  once  as  a  bird. 
My  rhythms  of  speech  you  aided, 
And  by  my  brain  you  were  stirred  ; 

"  Poor  wrinkled  hands,  like  two 
Old  women  worn  and  wizened, 
My  thoughts  run  on,  but  you 
In  listlessness  are  prisoned. 

"  Yet  I  bless  you,  my  hands,  now  that  strife 
Is  done,  and  the  heart  reposes  ; 
You  taught  me  the  touch  of  roses, 
And  the  caresses  of  life." 
215 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

But  it  needed  Le  Rouet  et  la  Besace  (The 
Spinning- Wheel  and  the  Wallet)  to  discover 
all  the  fascination  of  Grdgoire  Le  Roy's  mystic 
Muse.  This  ddition  de  luxe  is  ornamented  by  the 
poet's  own  drawings — wonderful  pictures  which 
actually  seem  to  be  more  laden  with  poetry  than 
the  poems  themselves.  Here  is  the  hearth  corner, 
with  the  cane-bottomed  chair  and  the  spinning- 
wheel  and  the  wallet ;  and  the  wallet,  dreaming  of 
all  the  roads  of  the  earth,  chides  the  spinning- 
wheel  for  its  love  of  the  hearth-corner.  Here  is 
the  picture  of  a  lonely  cottage  half  hidden  behind 
a  row  of  poplar-trees,  set  in  the  midst  of  bare,  flat 
fields  that  seem  to  stretch  to  infinity,  and  the 
legend  is  :  "  Will  he  come  ?  " — Somebody  is  wait- 
ing for  somebody  to  come,  watching  the  horizon, 
wearily.  Here  are  Flemish  houses,  all  higgledy- 
piggledy  with  their  gables  and  their  skylights, 
overshadowing  a  Flemish  river,  where  boats  are 
gliding  on  to  the  sea  in  an  endless  procession  : 
perhaps  'one  of  them  will  bring  happiness  to  the 
watcher  at  the  window ;  perhaps  happiness  has 
already  glided   past.  .  .  .    Here   is   the   end   of  a 

village  with  a  broken-down  old  pilgrim  come  home 

216 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

at  last :  do  you  remember,  lady,  the  pensive  poet 
who  was  your  guest  long  ago  ?  He  has  pilgrimed 
round  his  heart  and  the  world,  and  now  he  is  the 
old  man  who  has  come  back  to  you.  .  .  .  Here 
are  the  black  masts  of  a  great  ship  against  the 
setting  sun,  and  serried  ranks  of  emigrants  marching 
thither — the  poet  has  seen  them  passing  and  passing 
to  their  far  adventures ;  as  for  him,  he  has  never 
left  his  home  and  his  little  garden.  But  he  has 
seen  everything,  and  his  wandering  soul  is  tired 
of  everything,  and  his  ship,  his  little  barque,  is 
waiting  to  take  him  to  the  farther  shore.  Here — a 
drawing  of  almost  unendurable  sadness — is  an  old 
man  playing  a  guitar  in  a  deserted,  cobbled  street ; 
his  cloak  and  beard  are  ragged,  his  face  is  haggard 
with  hopeless  despair — and  he  is  singing  of  love. 

\i  Le  Rouet  et  la  Besace  is  an  old  man's  book, 
it  proves  that  Gr^goire  Le  Roy  had  to  grow  old 
before  he  could  realise  his  legend.  It  is  stronger, 
because  it  is  sadder,  than  the  books  of  the  poet's 
youth.  After  all,  in  those  days,  autrefois  was  the 
future. 

There   is   a   sage's  gentle   philosophy,   too,   in 

Joe  Trimborn  (19 13),  the  collection  of  short  stories 

217 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

which  must  have  come  as  a  surprise  to  those 
who  thought  Le  Roy  was  a  lyrist  pure  and 
simple.  They  would  be  among  the  most  remark- 
able of  Belgian  short  stories  if  only  by  virtue  of 
their  quaint  humour.  Perhaps  it  is  not  betraying 
too  much  of  a  secret  if  one  mentions,  too,  that 
Contes  d'Apres  Minuit  (Brussels,  191 3),  a  book 
of  grotesque  stories  with  a  satirical  vein,  are  by 
Gr^goire  Le  Roy.  If  one  may  read  between  the 
lines  of  the  preface,  they  owe  something  to  the 
collaboration  of  Charles  van  Lerberghe. 

Albert  Mockel  is  as  complex  as  Gr6goire  Le 
Roy  is  simple.  There  is  an  outward  show  of 
simplicity  in  his  learned  verse,  due  to  his  imitation 
of  old  folksongs,  but  the  appearance  is  very  de- 
ceptive. His  first  volume  of  verse,  Chantefable 
un  peu  nawe,  which  had  considerable  influence  on 
the  symbolist  movement,  is  as  difficult  to  explore 
as  a  virgin  forest.  But  if  it  is  a  virgin  forest  of 
packed  and  tufted  ideas,  there  is  a  delirious  music 
singing  in  the  branches,  and  to  the  strayed  reveller 
who  is  lost  therein  and  beguiled  it  does  not  seem 
to  be  at  all  important  to  find   a   path  out  of  the 

wood. 

218 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

Meckel  was  editor,  at  Lidge,  of  La  Wallonie 
when  Chantefable  un  peu  naive  gave  him  his 
captaincy  in  the  symbolist  army.  La  Wallonie 
was  one  of  the  most  important  of  the  symbolist 
reviews,  for  France  as  well  as  for  Belgium.  In 
its  pages  are  to  be  found  poems  by  the  most 
distinguished  French  and  Belgian  poets  of  the 
day,  side  by  side  with  the  promising  work  of  Bel- 
gian writers — Auguste  Vierset,  Hector  Chainaye, 
C^lestin  Demblon,  Jules  Destr^e — who  have  since 
been  more  or  less  lost  to  literature  in  the  busy 
tides  of  journalism  or  politics.  With  Li6ge 
Mockel's  whole  life  is  connected  :  he  was  born  in 
the  province  (1866),  he  was  educated  there,  and, 
though  for  some  years  he  has  resided  in  Paris 
and  the  neighbourhood,  he  has  returned  periodi- 
cally to  conduct  his  Walloon  campaign.  With 
Jules  Destr^e  he  is  a  leader  of  those  Belgians 
who  see  a  national  peril  in  the  machinations  of 
the  Flemings ;  and  in  the  interest  of  the  cause  he 
has  so  much  at  heart  he  has  written  and  set  to 
music  his  famous  Chant  de  la  Wallonie,  a  party 
cry  which  may  yet  (unless   the  war   brings  sager 

counsels)  become  a   battle   cry.     Strange  to   say, 

219 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

this  ardent  champion  of  French  culture  against 
Germanic  culture  is  himself  of  German  descent ! 

Mockel's  ripest  verse  which  has  so  far  been 
published  in  book  form  is  contained  in  Clarth 
(1902),  though  fragments  have  appeared  from  time 
to  time  in  journals  of  a  new  volume,  La  Flamme 
Immortelle.  One  of  the  best  poems  in  Claries  is 
the  "  Song  of  Running  Water."  It  sings  the 
transitoriness  of  all  that  is  :  everything  flows  away 
like  a  river,  impelled  beyond  the  bounds  of  time 
by  resistless  desire. 

The  symbols  of  some  of  the  other  poems  are 
more  transparent.  "The  Goblet,'*  for  instance, 
is  Woman,  or  (more  narrowly)  the  Courtesan  : 

"  Every  hand  that  touches  me  I  greet 
With  kisses  welcoming,  caresses  sweet. 

"  Thus  in  my  crystal's  naked  beauty,  I — 
With  nothing  save  a  little  gold  as  on  my  lips  a  dye — 
Give  myself  wholly  to  the  mouth  unknown 
That  seeks  the  burning  of  my  own. 

"  Queen  of  joy, — queen  and  slave — 
Mistress  that  taken  passes  on  again, 
Mocking  the  love  she  throws  to  still 
Desire,  I  have  blown  madness  at  my  pleasure's  will 
To  the  four  winds  that  rave. 

220 


The  Symbolist  Poets 


*'  Say  you  that  I  am  vain  ? 
List! 

I  am  feeble,  scarcely  I  exist.  .  .  . 
Yet  listen  :  for  I  can  be  everything. 

"  This  mouth,  that  never  any  kiss  could  close, 
Capriciously  in  subtle  fires  it  blows, 
The  jewelled  garlands  of  a  shadowy  blossoming. 


"  For  the  lover  drunken  on  my  lips  that  burn, 
Whether  he  pour  in  turn 

The  wines  of  gold  and  flame  or  love's  wave  to  my  rim, 
Drinks  from  my  soul  for  ever  strange  to  him 
A  queenly  splendour  or  the  radiance  of  the  skies. 
Or  fury  scorching  where  the  harmful  ruby  lies 
In  the  bitter  counsel  of  my  jealous  topazes. 

"  And,  tears  or  joy,  delirium,  daring  drunkenness, 
From  all  this  passion  that  to  his  is  married 
Nothing  of  me  will  gush  unto  his  arid 
Lips,  save  the  simple  and  the  limpid  light 
Whose  gleam  is  wedded  to  my  empty  chalice. 

"  What  matter  ?     I  have  given  Desire  his  cloudland  palace. 
And  on  my  courtesan's  bare  breast 
Love  lets  the  hope  of  his  diaphanous  flight 
Languish,  and  softly  rest.   .   .   . 
And  I  laugh,  the  fragile,  frivolous  sister  of  Eve  ! 
For  me  in  nights  of  madness  drunken  hands  upheave 

221 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Higher  than  all  foreheads  to  the  constellated  skies, 
And  then  I  am  the  sudden  star  of  lies, 
That  into  troubled  joys  darts  deep  its  radiant  gleam- 
The  sweet,  perfidious  happiness  of  Uream." 


Mockel's  prose  is  more  widely  read  than  his 
verse.  Unfortunately,  much  of  the  good  prose  he 
wrote  for  La  Wallonie  and  other  journals,  at  the 
time  when  he  was  described  by  Cdestin  Demblon 
as  "  a  Walloon  dandy,  outrageously  intellectual  and 
despotically  symbolistic,"  has  not  been  quarried  by 
the  publishers.  A  little  book  of  his  in  which  he 
caricatured  his  colleagues  and  himself,  Les  Fum- 
istes  lVa//ons,  a-ppeared  in  1887;  but,  like  Chante- 
fable,  this  book  cannot  now  be  got  for  love  or 
money.  (It  is  doubly  a  collector's  book:  it  is  a 
document  in  the  history  of  the  symbolist  move- 
ment, and  its  very  beautiful  frontispiece  was  the 
first  published  work  of  Armand  Rassenfosse.)  His 
volumes  of  criticism  which  still  remain  on  sale  are 
Propos  de  Littdrature  (1894),  ^  meticulous  com- 
parison and  interpretation  of  Henri  de  R^gnier  and 
Francis  Viele-Griffin ;  ^mile  Verhaeren  (1895); 
Stephane  Mallarmd  (1899),  the  most  authoritative 

criticism  extant  of  the  origins   and   aims  of  sym- 

222 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

holism;  Charles  van  Lerberghe  (1904),  adequate 
as  an  interpretation  but  not  sufficiently  extensive 
as  biography ;  and  Victor  Rousseau,  a  book  on  the 
great  Belgian  sculptor  who  during  the  war  has  been 
the  guest  of  Lord  Milner.  Very  rarely  indeed  has 
Mockel  written  criticism  which  has  been  belied  by 
time.  What  he  has  once  said,  holds  good  in  spite 
of  all  apotheoses  and  reactions. 

The  prose-writers  of  La  Wallonie  affected  Mal- 
larmese.  In  other  words  their  style  was  affected. 
Mallarmese  prose  as  written  by  Mallarm^  was  a 
miracle  of  Stimmung,  something  absolutely  original, 
the  weft  and  woof  of  a  rare  personality ;  but  the 
imitative  prose  of  his  admirers,  tainted  often  by  a 
farther  aberration  in  the  direction  of  Ren^  Ghil,  is 
sometimes  curious,  sometimes  diverting,  and  some- 
times appalling.  Albert  Mockel  and  several  others, 
however,  became  great  virtuosos  in  this  "  symphonic 
prose,"  although  it  should  be  noted  that  in  their 
riper  years  they  returned  to  a  saner  style.  What 
they  were  trying  to  do  was  to  write  poetry  in 
prose :  even  Meckel's  criticism  is  often  in  the 
nature  of  a  prose  poem,   and  that  is  what  gives 

it  a  more  permanent   value  than  the  voluminous 

223 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

academic  criticism  of  such  lucid  and  shallow  writers 

as  Faguet.     Meckel  is  as  much  a  stylist  as  Walter 

Pater  was. 

"  Nothing  is  nearer  a  very  lyrical  song,"  says 

Mockel  in  the  preface  to  his  Contes  pour  les  En- 

fants  dHier  (1908),   "than  a  violently  burlesque 

tale."     This  is  a  theory,  by  the  most  logical  and 

conscientious  theorist  of  Belgian  literature,  a  theorist 

whose   works   are   usually   exemplifications   of  his 

theories.     But  the  Contes  pour  les  En/ants  d'Hier 

(Tales  for  the  Children  of  Yesterday)  have  not  the 

appearance  of  having  sprung  from  a  theory ;  they 

seem  rather  to  have  been  born  of  sheer  delight 

in  the  burlesque ;    and  in  this  case  probably  the 

theory    was    deduced   from    the   completed    work. 

The  symbolists,  it  must  be  admitted,  rode  theories 

to  death — indeed,  some  of  the  most  gifted  of  them 

theorised  themselves  to  death ;   but  these  tales  of 

Mockel  at  all  events  are  fresh  with  the  greenness 

of  the  tree   of  life.     From    Edmund   Gosse   they 

won  Mockel  the  title  of  "  a  Belgian  Ariosto  " ;  and 

there  is  adventure  enough   in  them  to  justify  the 

praise,  but  it   is   the   playful   Gallic   wit  and   the 

224 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

scintillant  satire  that  make  the  great  merit  of  the 
book. 

La  Wallonie  lasted  seven  years — a  long  life 
for  a  review  which  printed  nothing  but  literature. 
As  it  declined,  another  Liege  journal,  Florealy 
founded  in  1892  by  Paul  Gdrardy,  progressed 
apace,  cheered  on  and  congratulated  even  by  its 
dying  rival.  Paul  G^rardy  is  a  curious  case.  He 
is  a  Prussian  subject,  born  in  the  year  of  blood  at 
Saint- Vith  near  Malm^dy.  His  culture  is  certainly 
half  German.  One  of  his  best  books,  A  la  Gloire 
de  Bockliuy  is  lyric  praise  of  a  German  painter. 
And  he  has  written  German  poetry  of  distinction, 
which  is  all  gathered  into  the  harvest  of  that 
masterful  chief  of  formalists,  Stefan  George. 
And  yet  G^rardy  hates  Prussia,  like  a  true  Belgian  ; 
and  his  French  poetry  is  more  likely  to  live  than 
his  German  poetry.  His  verses,  which  are  col- 
lected in  Roseaux  (1898),  have  the  naivet^  of  folk- 
songs.    How  simple  and  subtle  is  "Of  Sad  Joy  "  : 

"  I  am  angry  with  you,  little  girl, 
Because  of  your  gracious  smiles, 
And  your  restful  lips,  and  teeth  of  pearl, 
And  the  black  glitter  of  your  great  eyes. 

225  P 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  I  am  angry  with  you,  but  on  my  knees, 
For  when  I  went  away,  in  happy  wise, 
Far  from  you,  far  as  goes  the  breeze, 
I  could  think  of  nothing  but  of  your  eyes. 

"  I  was  timid,  I  never  looked  back. 
And  I  went  singing  as  madmen  do, 
To  forget  your  eyes,  alack ! 
But  my  song  was  all  about  you." 

"  Some  Song  or  Other "  is  a  little  snatch  of 
music  that  holds  all  the  melancholy  of  the  symbolist 
attitude : 

"  The  song  of  moonlight  all 
That  trembles  as  aspens  shake. 
The  thrush  sang  it  at  the  evenfall 
To  the  listening  swan  on  the  blue  lake. 

"  It  is  all  of  love  and  distress. 
And  of  joy  and  love,  and  then 
There  are  sobs  of  gold  and  weariness. 
And  ever  comes  joy  back  again. 

"  Far,  far  away  flew  the  thrush, 
And  the  swan  went  pondering 
All  the  new  words,  by  lily  and  rush, 
With  his  head  underneath  his  wing." 

G^rardy   is    the   one    satirist   of  the    Belgians. 

(Courouble  deals  rather  in  caricature  ;  and  the  satire 

226 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

of  Mockel's  Contes  pour  les  Enfants  d Hier  is 
softened  by  the  grotesqueness  of  burlesque).  Les 
Camets  du  Rot  (1903)  is  a  delightful  satire  on  the 
late  King  Leopold — so  delightful  that  his  Majesty 
himself  is  said  to  have  read  it  with  immense  gusto. 
Le  Ckmois  tel  quon  le  parle  (1903)  shows  up  the 
Belgian  magistracy.  A  satire  which  will  no  doubt 
be  reprinted  and  have  a  long  lease  of  life  is  S, 
M.  Patacake,  Empereur  dOccitanie  ( 1 904) ;  the 
hero  is  the  German  Emperor.  G^rardy,  by  the 
way,  is  the  editor  of  the  new  Belgian  paper,  La 
Belgique  Nouvelle. 

Another  poet  of  Li^ge  is  Isi-Collin,  who  founded 
the  review  Antee,  which  published  much  new  work 
of  importance,  including  translations  of  Arthur 
Symons.  Antee  was  the  organ  of  the  "id^o- 
r^aliste"  school.  Isi-Collin's  La  ValUe  Heureuse 
(1903)  garners  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye:  here 
are  notations  of  nature  pregnant  with  the  very 
essence  of  poetry.  The  verse  has  a  stately  build 
(Isi-Collin,  like  Paul  Gerardy,  has  learnt  much 
from  Mockel — these  three  might  be  grouped  to- 
gether as  the  Liege  school) ;  it  has  the  music  of 

an  organ  heard  from  afar. 

227 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

La  Vall'ee  Heureuse,  with  its  frontispiece  by 
Armand  Rassenfosse,  is  a  book  for  collectors  of 
beautiful  editions  (those  true  bibliophiles  who  handle 
their  treasures  with  loving  fingers  and  rarely  risk 
soiling  the  thick  pages  by  reading  them).  For 
these  people  I  si- Collin's  La  Divine  Rencontre,  pub- 
lished by  Desoer  at  Li^ge  in  191 3,  is  a  prize 
beyond  estimation.  The  printing  and  the  orna- 
mentation are  so  beautiful  that  the  contents  almost 
seem  to  fade  into  insignificance.  And  yet  there 
is  purport  in  this  chiselled  prose :  a  pantheist 
steeped  in  modernism  goes  forth  into  the  forest 
and  meets  Pan  himself.  They  have  some  con- 
versation, but — the  pantheist  does  not  understand 
Pan,  and  he  returns  to  town,  to  the  pantheism 
of  his  three-franc-fifty  yellow-backs  ...  for  your 
modern  pantheist  is  "sincerely  artificial  and  arti- 
ficially sincere."  ('*  If  you  were  an  animal,  well 
and  good,"  says  Nietzsche,  "  but  to  be  an  animal 
you  would  have  to  be  innocent.")  Sisyphe  et  le 
Juif  Errant,  finally,  is  a  dramatic  dialogue  pub- 
lished in  1 9 14,  and  produced  by  The  Pioneer 
Players  in  London  on  March  7th,  19 15. 

When  literary  men  are  gathered  together  and 
228 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

the  futile  question  is  asked  :  Who  is  the  greatest 
of  Belgian  poets  ?  there  would  be  some  who  would 
leap  over  Charles  van  Lerberghe  and  give  the 
highest  rank  to  that  tender  and  delicate  dreamer 
cloistered  in  Antwerp,  Max  Elskamp,  he  whose 
voice,  once  vibrating  with  a  very  frenzy  of  happi- 
ness, has  now  grown  silent  in  sadness.  Elskamp 
is  not  so  powerful  as  Verhaeren,  for  he  sings  in 
a  tower  of  ivory,  not  in  the  roaring  world ;  he  is 
not  so  perfect  a  melodist  as  van  Lerberghe,  but 
by  how  slight  a  degree  does  he  come  second !  And 
he  has  qualities  which  no  other  poet  has :  if  van 
Lerberghe  shadows  forth  the  soul  of  Man  and 
Woman,  the  sources  of  being,  the  rapture  of  con- 
summation, the  sadness  of  knowledge,  Elskamp 
images  the  universe  in  his  own  happy  Flanders, 
the  Flanders  of  Holy  Church,  mirrors  his  own 
soul  (which  is  the  soul  of  Man)  in  that  of  his  native 
city  of  Antwerp.  All  the  joy  of  pure  and  contrite 
hearts  wells  up  in  the  verse  of  Max  Elskamp,  in 
his  anthems  of  the  Sabbath — for  the  Sabbath  is 
joy ;  and  when  he  weaves,  like  a  black  thread  in 
a  golden  woof,  the  weariness  of  the  working-days 
(which  are  death)  into  the  singing  ecstasy  of  his 

229 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

fervour,  it  is  only  such  a  weariness  as  a  saintly 
worshipper  feels  in  the  week's  dust,  because  the 
Sabbath  with  its  peace  and  devotion  is  long  in 
coming,  and  even  so  he  consoles  with  the  promise 
of  a  Sunday  that  shall  aye  endure,  "and  all  at 
the  heart  of  a  far  domain."  No  one  can  mistake 
the  very  passion  of  ecstasy  there  is  in  the  darkest- 
coloured  of  Max  Elskamp's  songs  : 

"  Oh,  Mary  Mother,  be  a  black-robed  nun  .   .  . 
Now  is  the  season  of  all  suffering  come  .  .  ." 

— is   not  that   a   call  to  the  ecstasy  of  suffering, 

suffering  which  is    a   source    of  joy   eternal,   and 

therefore    itself    a    joy?     Sunday    bells    ring    all 

through    the  melodies    of    this    dizzily    dreaming 

mystic,   in    Flanders   with  its  poplar-shaded   ways 

by  the  sea  that  kisses  the  yellow  dunes. 

The  highest  praise  that  can  be  given  to  any 

poet  is  to  say  that  he  is  original,  that  he  himself 

and  no  other  man  is  all  he  has  sung.     Of  Max 

Elskamp  this   can  be   said   with    confidence.     An 

academic  critic  with  his  ferreting  nose  and  unseeing 

eyes  might  trace  the  outward  shape  of  the  stanzas, 

some  of  the  tricks  of  diction,  the  enchanting  asson- 

230 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

ances  which  disgust  one  for  ever  with  the  formalist's 
welter  of  close-fitting  rhymes,  to  the  quaint  irregu- 
larities of  the  folksong.  It  needs  no  great  read- 
ing to  find  out  that  Georges  Khnopff,  another 
Flemish  mystic  on  whose  frail  verse  the  dust  of 
neglect  is  gathering  now,  had  fashioned  such  sym- 
bolist hymns  before  Elskamp ;  but  the  inner  music, 
all  the  miracle  of  meaning,  all  the  fervour  of  the 
song  rising  to  a  height  where  the  human  voice  can 
go  no  farther  and  must  rest — all  this  is  Elskamp's 
own,  and  there  is  nothing  at  all  like  it  in  any  other 
man's  verse. 

Max  Elskamp  was  born  of  a  French  mother 
and  a  Flemish  father  in  1862  in  Antwerp,  in  a 
street  where  the  flags  of  the  Consulates  tell  of  dis- 
tant lands  whence  come  the  ships  "  clustered  like 
a  choir "  in  the  harbour.  He  grew  up  among 
merchandise  (for  his  grandfather  was  a  shipper) ; 
and  commerce  was  a  dream  to  him.  Dominical 
(1892)  was  his  first  book.  It  was  a  beautiful  edition 
with  a  cover  ornamented  by  Henry  Van  de  Velde, 
that  great  Flemish  artist  who,  finding  scant  en- 
couragement  in   his    own    country,    emigrated    to 

Germany  and  there,  continuing  the  work  of  William 

231 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Morris,  inaugurated  a  new  era  in  decorative  art.J 
Van  de  Velde,  too,  ornamented  the  next  three 
volumes  of  Elskamp :  Salutations,  dont  dAngel- 
iques  (1893) ;  ^^  Symbole  vers  fApostolat  (1895) ; 
and  Six  Chansons  de  Pauvre  Homme  (1896). 
These  four  books  are  collected  in  La  Louange  de 
la  Vie,  published  by  the  Mercure  de  Francem  1898. 
The  next  volume  of  verse,  Enluminures  (1898),  is 
illustrated  by  the  poet  himself. 

Few  symbolist  authors  need  interpreting  more 
than  Max  Elskamp.  It  is  not  that  his  symbols 
are  recondite — as  a  matter  of  fact  they  are  so 
restricted  that  a  little  familiarity  makes  them 
seem  quite  natural  and  clear.  The  difficulty  is 
that  he  makes  use  of  local  customs  and  of 
fragments  of  old  ballads.  As  an  example  of  his 
difficulty,  a  famous  poem  from  Dominical  might 
be  taken : 

"  And  the  town  of  My  thousand  souls, 
Do  you  sleep,  do  you  sleep  ? 
It  is  Sunday,  My  women  folks, 
And  My  town,  do  you  sleep  ? 

^  Henry  Van  de  Velde's  most  important  criticism  is  in  German 
{Essays,  Insel-Verlag,  Leipzig,  1910). 

232 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

*'  And  you  Jews,  the  shame  of  My  alleys, 
Do  you  sleep,  do  you  sleep  ? 
— Antiquities  and  Laces — 

Even  the  Jews,  do  you  sleep  ? 

"  And  you.  My  gentle  candle-merchants, 
Do  you  sleep,  do  you  sleep  ? 
While  Her  litanies  soar  to  the  Virgin, 
Do  you  sleep,  do  you  sleep  ? 

"  Steeples,  your  hours  have  been  stolen, 
Do  you  sleep,  do  you  sleep  ? 
Friar  Jacques,  in  the  habitation 
Of  what  sleep  do  you  sleep  ? 

"  Good  people,  this  is  the  Sabbath 

And  the  windows  with  frost  are  hoar. 
In  the  city  that  the  flags  of 

The  Consulates  are  hanging  o'er." 

The  general  sense,  even  in  the  rude  transla- 
tion, should  be  clear  at  first  reading.  The  Virgin 
is  bending  over  a  Flemish  city,  Mrhich  the  last  line 
localises  as  Antwerp ;  it  is  a  Sabbath  morning 
bright  with  hoar-frost ;  and  the  virgin  is  waiting 
for  the  bells  to  begin  and  ring  Her  good  people 
to  Church.  That  is  the  mood,  a  mood  of  glad 
expectancy  of  the  joys   of  the   Sabbath,  the  first 

hush  of  the  ecstasy  of  worship.     But  the  essence 

233 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

of  this  poem  is  its  blending  of  the  mood  with  a 
most  delicate  humour.  That  gay  words  and  posi- 
tive chaffing  should  be  placed  in  the  mouth  of  the 
Holy  Virgin  is  quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  old  Flem- 
ish songs  which  are  ever  at  the  back  of  Max 
Elskamp's  mind — in  the  folksong  the  humour  would 
very  likely  have  been  coarse :  Elskamp  refines  it, 
that  is  all.  The  virgin,  then,  waiting  for  the  incense 
of  Her  bells,  chides  Her  women  for  lying  abed ; 
She  mocks  the  Jews  in  the  old  curiosity  shops 
in  the  side  streets ;  nay,  the  very  merchants  of  Her 
holy  candles  are  still  sleeping ;  the  steeples  seem 
to  think  that  their  bells  have  gone  on  their 
annual  pilgrimage  to  Rome  ;  and  even  Friar  Jacques 
is  sleeping  yet,  he  of  the  old  song  that  every- 
body knows : 

"  Frere  Jacques,  Frere  Jacques, 
Dormez-vous,  dormez-vous  ? 
Sonnez  les  matines, 

Bim  !     Bam  !     Bourn  ! " 

(Notice    the    assonance    in    the   folksong  —  vous: 

Bourn :  Elskamp  has  many  such.)     The  last  stanza 

has    the    superb    musical   climax    of   so   many    of 

Elskamp's  songs :  at  this  moment,   one  imagines, 

234 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

the  bells  ring  out,  Friar  James  having  run  up 
into  the  belfry  tower  three  steps  at  a  time  at 
the  Virgin's  gentle  chiding ;  and  now  the  good 
burghers'  dames  come  forth,  and  the  candle-mer- 
chant is  ready  with  his  wares,  and  the  Jews  in 
the  by-streets  peer  out  over  the  curios  and  the 
old  lace  in  their  shop-windows,  and  the  sun  shines 
out  on  the  hoar-frost  and  the  waving  banners  of 
the  Consulates. 

That  is  the  manner  of  the  poems  in  La  Louange 
de  la  Vie.  You  must  know  the  key-words;  then 
your  heart  can  dance  along  with  the  verse,  dance 
as  the  very  trees  dance  when  joy  (or  Sunday)  is 
in  the  land. 

There  is  not  in   Elskamp's  verse  the  sudden 

shock  of  the  sublime,  but  there  is  the  continuous 

thrill  of  images  full  of  grace  and  charm.     Poem 

sings  to  poem ;   the  music  swells  and  sinks ;  the 

whole  book  is  a  peal  of  belfry  bells.     Everything 

is   in  harmony   with   the    Roman   Catholic  ritual ; 

and  the  good  Catholics  find  nothing  offensive  in 

the  playful  spirit  that  makes  symbols  of  the  Virgin 

and  Jesus,  and  expresses  an  artist's  disgust  with 

ugly  things  by  dreaming  that  the  Mother  of  God 

235 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

looks  down   on  drunken  soldiers   reeling  through 
the  streets  of  Antwerp  and  mourns : 

"  And  I  am  sad  as  with  the  brandy 
Which  brings  the  soldiers  late  to  barracks, 
Upon  the  Sunday  drunk  with  brandy, 
Within  My  streets  all  full  of  soldiers, 
I  have  the  sadness  of  much  brandy." 

Enluminures  is  merely  a  continuation  of  La 
Louange  de  la  Vie.  All  Elskamp's  work  is  this 
Song  of  Praise  ;  all  his  poems  illuminate  the  manu- 
script of  Life  in  its  holy  moods.  One  of  the 
poems  of  this  volume  seems  to  me  to  be  the  very 
finest  of  those  songs  which  ring  rhymes  on  a 
religious  anachronism  : 

"  And  Mary  reads  a  Gospel-page, 
With  folded  hands  in  the  silent  hours, 
And  Mary  reads  a  Gospel-page, 
Where  the  meadow  sings  with  flowers. 

"  And  all  the  flowers  that  star  the  ground, 
In  the  far  emerald  of  the  grass. 
Tell  Her  how  sweet  a  life  they  pass, 
With  simple  words  of  dulcet  sound. 

*'  And  now  the  angels  in  the  cloud, 
And  the  birds  too  in  chorus  sing. 
While  the  beasts  graze,  with  foreheads  bowed, 
The  plants  of  scented  blossoming. 
236 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

"  And  Mary  reads  a  Gospel-page, 
The  pealing  hours  She  overhears, 
Forgets  the  time,  and  all  the  years, 
For  Mary  reads  a  Gospel-page. 

*'  And  masons  building  cities  go 
Homeward  in  the  evening  hours, 
And  o'er  gilt  cocks  on  belfry  towers 
Clouds  and  breezes  pass  and  blow." 

There  may  be  people  to  whom  these  symbols 
may  seem  childish.  They  are  not  childish,  but 
they  are  childlike.  What  a  naive  symbol  is  that 
of  the  Jews — "Jews  of  shame  with  grey  hair" — 
eyesores  in  a  world  where  Jesus  is  all  rosy  and 
the  sky  all  azure.  Elskamp  is  not  necessarily  an 
anti-Semite — all  that  he  does  is  (for  the  purpose 
of  poetry)  to  look  at  Jews  "as  those  in  Brittany 
and  childhood  do."  The  jaundiced  Protestant, 
too,  would  be  wrong  if  he  thought  the  Gospel 
that  Max  Elskamp  preaches  a  glaringly  Roman 
Catholic  gospel.  Let  it  be  whispered  that  Max 
Elskamp  is  a  freethinker.  .  .  . 

But  orthodox  Roman  Catholic  poets  there  are 

in   Belgium,   the   poets  who  have  written   for  Le 

Spectateur   Catholique  and   Durendal.     The  chief 

of    them    are :     Victor     Kinon,    Thomas    Braun, 

237 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Georges  Ramaekers,  and  Pierre  Nothomb.  Victor 
Kinon  was  associated  from  its  first  number  with 
Le  Spectateur  Catholique,  a  review  started  by  the 
essayist  Edmond  de  Bruyn,  who  with  Max  Elskamp 
established  the  Museum  of  Folklore  at  Antwerp. 
Kinon's  lyric  verse  is  collected  in  UAme  des 
Saisons  (1909).  The  prevailing  note  is  (if  an 
epigram  may  be  risked)  one  of  realistic  mysticism. 
There  are  songs  which  outwardly  are  in  Elskamp's 
manner ;  but  the  world  they  move  in  is  real,  not 
Elskamp's  dream-world.  Kinon's  religious  fervour 
has  almost  the  directness  of  a  Salvation  Army 
preacher : 

"  Boiled,  boiled  again,  and  carbonized 
Be  the  old  serpent  of  sin  and  lies ! 

Pulverized,  trod  under  feet, 
Be  the  old  serpent  of  deceit ! " 

But  there  is  another  note :  that  of  simplicity  in 

the  description  of  nature,  the  simplicity  of  which 

Francis  Jammes  is  the  great  master.     Kinon  (who 

in  spite   of  his   surname    is   a    Fleming)    has  the 

vivid  colouring  of  his  race : 

238 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

"  The  stainless  snow  and  the  blue, 
Lit  by  a  pure  gold  star, 
Nearly  meet  ;  but  a  bar 
Of  fire  separates  the  two. 

"  A  rime-frosted  black  pinewood, 
Raising,  as  waves  roll  foam, 
Its  lances  toothed  like  a  comb, 
Dams  the  horizon's  blood, 

"  In  the  tomb  of  blue  and  white 
Nothing  stirs  save  a  crow. 
Unfolding,  solemnly  slow. 
Its  silky  wing  black  as  night." 

Some  of  his   literary  criticism   (though  he  is   one 

of  the  acknowledged  mouthpieces  of  his   Church, 

his  verdicts  are   never   intolerant)   is   collected   in 

Portraits  cTAuteurs  (19 lo). 

The   influence  of  Francis  Jammes   is   obvious 

and   confessed   in   the    poetry  of  Thomas    Braun, 

who  has,   moreover,   written  a  little  book   on  the 

master  of  Orthez    [Des   Poetes   Simples:    Francis 

Jammes).     Braun  is  a  Walloon  of  German  descent, 

but  he  must  be  part    Fleming,   for   Verhaeren  is 

his  uncle.     The  fine  flower  of  his  genius  blooms 

for  evermore  in  his  Le  Livre  des  Benedictions ^  a 

239 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

beautifully  printed  and  illustrated  book  produced 
in  1900  under  the  auspices  of  Le  Spectateur  Catho- 
lique.  These  quaint  benedictions  of  the  nuptial 
ring,  of  the  child,  of  the  house,  of  bread,  wine, 
beer,  cheese,  &c.,  summon  up  all  the  technical 
details  of  the  subject  to  make  them  sing  a  robust 
poetry.  Over  the  Benediction  of  Beer  is  a  foam- 
ing mug  wreathed  with  the  Flemish  legend  "  Bier 
in  de  voile  Pot,"  and  the  invocation  to  the  Lord, 
"Quam  ex  adipe  frumenti  producere  dignatus  es." 

What  a  jolly  religion  this  Roman  Catholicism 
of  Flanders  is!  Here  is  an  invocation  full  of 
reverence — hands  folded  by  the  foaming  mug — 
which  rolls  out  the  names  of  the  national  brews 
as  though  the  Great  Brewer  of  all — for  His  are 
the  malt  and  the  hops  and  the  glucose  and  all  the 
other  ingredients — were  personally  familiar  with 
the  taste  of  each.  There  is  the  same  monk's 
humour  (as  of  a  genuinely  pious  Friar  Tuck)  in 
**  The  Benediction  of  the  Cheeses  "  : 

"  When  from  the  void,  good  Lord,  this  earth  You  raised. 
You  made  vast  pasture-lands  where  cattle  grazed,  ,j 

Where  shepherds  led  their  flocks,  and  shore  their  fleeces, 
And  scraped  their  hides,  and  cut  them  into  pieces, 

240 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

When  they  had  eaten  all  their  nobler  flesh, 
Which  with  earth's  virgin  odour  still  was  fresh. 
O'er  Herve's  plateaux  our  cattle  pass,  and  browse 
The  ripe  grass  which  the  mist  of  summer  bows, 
And  over  which  the  scents  of  forests  stream. 
They  give  us  butter,  curds,  and  milk,  and  cream. 
God  of  the  fields,  Your  cheeses  bless  to-day. 
For  which  Your  thankful  people  kneel  and  pray. 
Let  them  be  fat  or  light,  with  onions  blent. 
Shallots,  brine,  pepper,  honey ;  whether  scent 
Of  sheep  or  fields  is  in  them,  in  the  yard 
Let  them,  good  Lord,  at  dawn  be  beaten  hard  ; 
And  let  their  edges  take  on  silvery  shades 
Under  the  most  red  hands  of  dairymaids  ; 
And,  round  and  greenish,  let  them  go  to  town 
Weighing  the  shepherd's  folding  mantle  down  ; 
Whether  from  Parma  or  from  Jura  heights, 
Kneaded  by  august  hands  of  Carmelites, 
Stamped  with  the  mitre  of  a  proud  abbess. 
Flowered  with  the  fragrance  of  the  grass  of  Bresse, 
From  Brie,  hills  of  the  Vosges,  or  Holland's  plain, 
From  Roquefort,  Gorgonzola,  or  from  Spain  ! 
Bless  them,  good  Lord  !     Bless  Stilton's  royal  fare, 
Red  ^  Cheshire,  and  the  tearful,  cream  Gruy^re  ! 
Bless  Kantercaas,  and  bless  the  Mayence  round. 
Where  aniseed  and  other  grains  are  found  ; 
Bless  Edam,  Pottekees,  and  Gouda  then. 
And  those  that  we  salute  with  *  Sir,' '  like  men." 

*  The  Dutch  cheese  which  goes  by  the  name  of  "  Cheshire  " 
is  red. 

2  Refers  to  the  French  cheese  called  "  Monsieur  fromage." 

241  Q 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

There  is  a  more  cosmopolitan  strangeness  in 
Philatelie  (1910).  It  is  a  rhymed  catalogue  of 
stamps,  that  is  all ;  but  there  is  poetry  in  the 
rhymes.  How  playful  and  tender  is  this  Dutch 
stamp : 

"  Pauvre  petite  Wilhelmine, 
tulipe  des  pays  des  Cimbres, 
eus-tu  toujours  si  fraiche  mine 
et  tant  de  joie  que  sur  ces  timbres  ?  " 

In  Fumee  d'Ardenne  (191 2)  we  have  a  Thomas 
Braun  who  has  grown  elegiac.  It  is  good  verse, 
but  it  has  not  the  strangeness  and  the  almost  un- 
conscious humour  of  the  Benedictions.  It  is  a 
hunter's  book,  written  in  the  Ardennes  during  the 
long  vacation  of  the  Law  Courts.  For  Thomas 
Braun  is  not  some  portly  abbot  with  a  well-stocked 
cellar,  he  is  a  busy  lawyer  in  Brussels.  He  is 
represented  in  the  British  Museum  catalogue  by 
a  learned  book  on  commercial  law — by  this  and 
no  other.  .  .  .  And  yet  he  is  poet  sufficiently  im- 
portant to  have  had  a  book  written  on  him — 
Thomas  Braun,   by  Albert  de   Bersaucourt  (Paris, 

1913)- 

Symbolism  runs  riot  in  the  verse  of  Georges 
242 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

Ramaekers  {Le  Chant  des  Trots  Regnes,  1906; 
Les  Saisons  Mystiques,  1910).  His  Roman  Catho- 
lic fervour  knows  no  bounds ;  but  the  poetry  he 
reads  into  his  sectarian  symbols  is  so  striking  that 
he  may  well  be  read  with  pleasure  by  the  very 
heretics  he  denounces  as  mushrooms  : 

"  In  the  autumnal  thicket,  thinned 
Along  its  mournful  arches  by  the  wind, 
No  longer  to  dead  twigs  but  sapwood  quick, 
Corrupting  trunks  that  time  left  whole, 
The  reeking  parasites  in  millions  stick, 
Like  to  the  carnal  ill  that  gnaws  the  soul 
Of  those  who  at  the  feet  of  women  fawn. 

"  And  Hell  has  blessed  their  countless  spawn. 

"  And  though  they  cannot  reach  the  surging  tops 
Of  the  unshaken  columns  of  the  Church, 
In  spreading  crops 
The  parasites  with  poison  smirch 
And  mottle  with  strange  stains  the  fruits 
The  Monstrance  ripens  in  the  groves  of  Rome. 

"  Trusting  that  ancient  orchard's  sainted  roots. 
Whoever  of  the  leprous  apples  eats 
Shall  feel  his  faith  grow  darkened  with  a  gloam 
That  filters  heresy's  corroding  sweets. 
243 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

*'  More  hideous  than  saprophytes, 
And  therefore  for  the  sacrilege  more  fit, 
Upon  the  Corn  and  Vinestock  sit 
Minute  and  miserable  parasites  ; 
And  o'er  the  Eucharist  their  tiny  bellies. 
To  eat  and  crimson  it,  have  crept. 
Their  occult  plague  has  for  three  hundred  years 
Eaten  the  very  hope  of  mystic  ears, 
Wherever  the  Christian  harvester  has  slept." 

(This  admission  must  surely  be  rather  encouraging 
to  the  heretics  whose  venene  putrescence  Ramaekers 
would  no  doubt  like  to  burn  with  a  flame  more 
consuming  than  that  of  his  verse.  But  note  now 
how  he  trounces  the  German  higher  critics,  who 
breed  the  spawn :) 

"  And  while,  in  the  land  of  heavy,  yellow  beers. 
In  the  brewing-vat  of  barren  exegeses 
Some  new-found  yeast  for  ever  effervesces, 
The  saints  whose  blood  turns  sick  and  rots. 
Waiting  till  a  second  Nero  shall 
For  their  cremation  light  a  golden  carnival. 
Behold  their  bodies  decked  with  livid  spots." 

Ramaekers  has  such  a  command  of  the  most 

unexpected  and  rash  images,  which  create  a  style 

as  though  in  his  heart-felt  sincerity  he  had  made 

244 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

all  the  extravagances  of  burlesque  seem  the  simple 
and  inevitable  expression  of  his  fervour,  that 
one  would  wish  him  to  write  an  epic  denuncia- 
tion of  the  German  invasion  of  his  country. 
There  would  be  more  force  in  his  indignation 
than  there  is  in  Pierre  Nothomb's  Les  Barbares 
en  Belgique  (191 5).  Nothomb's  Notre  Dame 
du  Matin  is  comparatively  restrained  in  its  mys- 
ticism, though  the  poems  seem  to  blend  the 
Virgin  Mary  and  some  earthly  maiden.  They 
are  poems  of  religious  exaltation  troubled,  as 
spring  proceeds  to  summer,  by  the  first  stirrings 
of  a  shy  sensuality.  It  is  a  book  for  the  pure  in 
heart. 

The  most  Mallarmean  of  the  Belgian  symbolists 
is  Andr^  Fontainas.  He  settled  in  Paris  in  1888, 
and  was  (like  Meckel)  a  close  friend  of  Mallarm^. 
His  poems,  which  are  collected  in  Crepuscules  (1897) 
and  La  Nef  Disemparie  (1908)  are  Pre-Raphaelite 
in  colouring : 

"  With  right  arm  on  the  open  casement  rim, 
The  negro  king  Cophetua,  with  sad  mien, 
And  eyes  that  do  not  see,  looks  at  the  green 
Autumnal  ocean  rolling  under  him. 
245 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  His  listless  dream  goes  wandering  without  goal  ; 
He  is  not  one  who  would  be  passion's  slave  ; 
And  no  remorse,  nor  memory  from  its  grave 
May  haunt  the  leisure  of  his  empty  soul. 

"  He  does  not  hear  the  melancholy  chaunt 
Of  girls  who  beg  before  him,  hollow,  gaunt 
With  fainting,  coughing  in  the  mellow  sun, 

"  And  unawares,  he  knows  not  how  it  came, 
He  feels  within  his  hardened  heart  a  flame. 
And  burns  his  eyes  at  the  eyes  of  the  youngest  one." 

It  is  not  the  subtle  and  gorgeous  colouring  of  his 
verse,  however,  which  makes  Fontainas  one  of  the 
most  permanently  interesting  of  Belgian  poets :  he 
is  past  master  of  that  mystery,  that  breathed  in- 
tangible suggestion,  for  which  the  symbolists  lived 
charmed  lives.  The  utmost  refinement  of  the 
theme,  the  most  floatingly  musical  expression  of 
the  idea,  the  rarest  words,  the  most  hidden  "  corre- 
spondencies " — all  this,  for  which  the  symbolists 
most  fervently  strove,  Fontainas  achieved.  What 
magic  there  is  in  his  "  Sea-scape  : " 

"  Under  basaltic  porticoes  of  calm  sea-caves, 
Heavy  with  alga  and  the  moss  of  fucus  gold, 
246 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

In  the  occult  slow  shaking  of  sea  waves, 

Among  the  alga  in  proud  blooms  unfold 

The  cups  of  pride  of  silent,  slender  gladioles.  .  .  . 

"  The  mystery  wherein  dies  the  rhythm  of  the  waves 
In  gleams  of  kisses  long  and  calm  unrolls, 
And  the  red  coral  whereon  writhes  the  alga  cold 
Stretches  out  arms  that  bleed  with  calm  flowers,  and 

beholds 
Its  gleams  reflected  in  the  rest  of  waves. 

"  Now  here  you  stand  in  gardens  flowered  with  alga,  cold 
In  the  nocturnal,  distant  song  of  waves. 
Queen  whose  calm,  pensive  looks  are  glaucous  gladioles, 
Raising  above  the  waves  their  light-filled  bowls. 
Among  the  alga  on  the  coral  where  the  ocean  rolls." 

"^     A  poet  who   has    published   surprisingly   little 

{IJAme  en  Exil,  1895),  but  who  is  yet  in  the  inner 

circles  of  poets  ranked  with  the  best,  is  Georges 

Marlow.     He  is  of  English  descent.     One  might 

say  of  him  that  he  writes  too  well  to  write  much. 

Some  of  his  poems  are  saturated  with  an  almost 

intolerable  pain.     He  is  a  true  brother  in  song  of 

Gregoire  Le  Roy  :  both  poets  express  a  melancholy 

which  verges  on  helplessness,   Marlow  with  more 

intensity  and  less  artlessness.     Marlow's  Souls  of 

the  Evening  evokes  some  street  in  a  dead  Flemish 

247 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

city  near  a  canal ;  and  the  weary  poet  wandering 
there  (weary  with  a  heart  pent  full  of  Christian 
charity  and  tender  regret)  hears  the  voices  of  old 
women  singing  hymns  while  they  spin  : 

"While  the  spindle  merrily  sings, 
Old  women  sing  your  complaint, 
The  gas-lamps  are  misty  and  faint, 
And  the  night  to  the  water  clings. 

"  Now  Jesus  walks  where  greens 
The  dark,  cobbled  alley,  and  rests 
His  poor,  pierced  hands  on  the  breasts 
Of  dreaming  Magdalenes ; 

"  And  of  every  orphan  child. 
And  of  houses  holy  with  prayer, 
Mary  Mother  has  care  ... 
Sing,  Jesus  meek  and  mild 

"  Stands  in  your  doorways'  gloom. 
And  hears  your  hymn  beseech.  .  .  . 
Let  the  honey  of  his  speech 
Your  desolate  hearts  perfume !  .  .  . 

"  The  Shepherd  of  straying  sheep 
Shall  lead  you  home  to  the  fold  .   .   . 
But  your  soul,  old  women,  must  weep, 
Remembering  its  wounds  of  old, 
248 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

"  Love,  and  the  heart's  long  burn, 
The  wounds  of  hope  ever  sick. 
And  childhood's  dreams  falling  quick. 
Shed  and  dead  turn  by  turn. 

"  Lord,  on  old  women  have  pity. 
Whose  soul,  fair  fragile  toy. 
Touched  by  the  kiss  of  the  city, 
Dreams  of  the  Sun  of  Joy  !  " 

There  is  one  Belgian  woman  poet.  This  is  Jean 
Dominique,  who  has  published  :  La  Gaule  Blanche 
(1903);  L' Anemone  des  Mers  (1906);  UAile 
MouilUe  ( 1 909) ;  and  Le  Putts  d'Azur  ( 1 9 1 2) .  The 
name,  of  course,  is  a  pseudonym,  but  it  is  common 
knowledge  that  she  who  has  made  it  famous  is  an 
elementary  teacher  in  Brussels — a  willing  teacher 
of  little  children,  for  she  loves  them.  Like  her 
great  master,  Charles  van  Lerberghe,  she  is  a 
poets'  poet ;  the  masses  will  not  pierce  her  secrets. 
How  should  the  reading  public  understand  such 
delicate  tracery  as : 

"  My  sylvan  soul,  so  full  of  nests  and  warm, 
Remembering  thy  flown  birds  with  pangs  how  keen, 
Shalt  thou  not  ever,  in  parched  summer's  breath, 
Hang  like  a  humming  heart  and  keep  the  swarm 
Of  gilded  bees  bearing  their  golden  queen 
Upon  their  orphan  heart  more  sad  than  death  ?  .  .  . 

249 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  And  shalt  thou  ever  of  ecstatic  nights, 
And  of  the  royal  Summer  crossing  earth, 
Know  but  the  printed  foot  in  amorous  flights 
Of  the  red  fawn,  and  shadow-dappled  mirth  ?  .  .  . 

"  Soul  whom  the  Winter  too  shall  cross  ere  long, 
And,  after.  Passion's  Spring  as  bindweeds  strong, 
More  sad  than  death  shalt  thou  not  ever  seize 
This  little  orphan,  golden  queen,  in  state 
Borne  round  the  world  upon  the  eddying  breeze 
By  many  a  thousand  longings  that  vibrate  ?  .  .  ." 

Of  recent  collection^  of  verse  by  the  younger 
men,  one  of  the  most  outstanding  is  Chant  Provin- 
cial (i<^i;^)  by  Jules  Delacre.  With  tender  melan- 
choly it  sings  the  aspects  of  a  provincial  town  : 
the  loneliness  of  hearts  that  dream  of  distant  voy- 
ages but  are  cabined  in  musty  rooms ;  the  waste 
places  where  nettles  grow  by  factories;  religious 
processions  with  ridiculous  people  sweating  along 
in  their  finery  ;  taverns  rich  and  poor,  taverns  filthy 
and  luxurious — taverns  everywhere ;  convents  and 
schools ;  the  lives  of  young  mothers  dulled  by 
maternity ;  misery  and  snatched  happiness  and  the 
ache  of  longing.     All  this  the  poet  sings  : 

"  For  the  young  teacher's  sake 
Who,  in  the  new  pinewood  of  the  primary  school, 
250 


The  Symbolist  Poets 

Where  chromos  glare, 

Leads  the  long  chorus  of  the  alphabet, 

And  dreams,  in  the  warm  reek  of  wretchedness.   .  .  . 

"  And  for  the  conscript's  sake 
Come  from  his  village  where  the  heather  clothes  the  rock. 
He  chooses  in  the  stationer's  shop, 
A  heart  made  of  forget-me-nots,  upon  a  cloud.  .  .  . 

"  And  for  the  servant's  sake 
Whose  shining  hands  are  worn  with  water, 
And  for  the  iron  bed  where  rests  her  heart, 
Under  the  attic  window  of  the  loft 
Full  of  the  moon  and  of  the  scent  of  soap.  .   .   . 

"  And  for  the  sake  of  old  maids  in  the  afternoon 
Endlessly  mending  meagre  things 
In  rooms  for  ever  closed. 
Among  old  birds  that  warble, 
Dogs  in  wool  and  family  spites.   .  .  . 

"  And  for  the  sake  of  clerks  in  livid  offices 
That  smell  of  acrid  ink  and  dust ; 
And  for  the  bankrupt  manufacturer 
Who,  on  the  threshold  of  his  ruin,  hears 
The  motor  stopping  in  his  factory.   ... 

"  And  for  the  station-master  in  the  rain. 
With  not  a  hope  of  travel  whistling  trains  away ; 
And  for  the  young  bride's  sake  whose  life  runs  weary 
In  the  new  furniture  of  a  dull  marriage  : 
For  all  your  sakes,  you  whom  I  love 

251 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Because  your  happiness  is  buried  hopelessly 
In  flats  and  basement  dwellings  self-contained  ; 
For  this  black  labourer's  sake  who  has  no  profit 
Of  any  of  the  joys  of  heaven  and  earth 
And  calls  to  me  and  says  he  is  my  brother.   .  .  . 

"  Yes,  for  the  sake  of  all  these  things.  .  .  ." 


Finally,  there  is  a  vein  of  rich  ore  in  the  wilder- 
ness of  Prosper  Roidot's  verse  i^Les  Polmes 
Pacifiques ;  La  Lumiere  des  Buis).  He  is  a  poet 
who  is  nearer  genius  than  talent ;  but  his  genius 
is  troubled,  and  only  flashes  with  a  dark,  spasmodic 
flame. 


] 


252 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE    PARNASSIAN    POETS 

An  interest  almost  pathetic   attaches  to  the  poets 

who  upheld  the  banner  of  the  Parnassian  School. 

The  vers    libre,   we    are    told,    is    as   dead    as    a 

door-nail :   even   Verhaeren   has   now  returned   to 

the   traditional   metres.     This   may   be    true ;    but 

the  fact  remains  that  the  great  poetry,  the  poetry 

that  will  remain,  in  Belgian  literature,  was  written 

by  the  verslibristes  in  their  prime.     At   least   one 

of  the  Parnassian  poets,  Albert  Giraud,  is  a  poet 

of  the  first  rank,  while   Fernand    S^verin   has  an 

evasive  distinction  which  will  always  keep  some  of 

his  poems  in  the   anthologies  ;   but  one  feels  that 

even  these  poets   have   been   hampered   and  held 

down  by  the  shackles  of  an  arbitrary  prosody. 

Giraud  is  first  and  foremost  a  colourist:  it  is 

not  for  nothing  that  he  is  a   Fleming.     There   is 

almost  an  orgy  of  colouring,  for   instance,  in   his 

poem  "Cordovans"  : 

253 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  You  leathers  red  with  autumn's,  victory's  dyes ! 
In  some  old  oratory's  night  you  blaze, 
Where  sleeps  the  heavy  splendour  of  dead  days  ; 
You  with  your  hues  of  epic,  evening  skies, 
Mysterious  as  fiery  meres  of  gold,        ' 
You  dream  of  those  who  trailed  their  swords,  and  bowed 
Above  your  cushions  stamped  with  wafers  proud 
Their  gashed  tanned  faces  in  the  days  of  old. 
With  an  odour  of  adventure  in  their  capes. 
Red  leathers  whom  the  peace  of  hangings  drapes, 
You  are  like  tragic  sunsets  !    Worn  were  ye 
By  legendary  heroes,  who  enriched 
The  kings  they  served,  and  all  the  world  bewitched, 
And  who  upon  a  copper,  kindled  sea, 
You  Cordovans  dyed  deep  with  war  and  pride. 
Embarked  in  summer  cool  of  eventide  ! 
You  are  chimerical  with  gathered  lives  ; 
Of  new  Americas  you  guard  the  gleams. 
You  sunk  in  dazzled  and  vermilion  dreams. 
In  you  the  soul  of  ancient  suns  survives  !  " 

Giraud  is  a  poet  who    is   home-sick    for  the  past. 

In  Hors  du  Steele  (1888),  La  GuirlancU  des  Dieux 

(1910),    and    La    Frise    Efnpotirprde    (191 2),    he 

evokes    the     magnificence     of    the     Renaissance, 

mourns  its  dead   glories,  purples   his   canvas  with 

pictures  of  its  vice.     Pride   is   the  keynote  of  his 

music — a  contemptuous  pride  which  is  far  removed 

254 


The  Parnassian  Poets 

from  the  austere  impassibility  of  the  French  Par- 
nassians. "The  abject  multitude  I  detest,"  cries 
out  the  poet;  "no  cry  from  the  present  shall 
cross  my  threshold ;  and  I  will  build  myself  a 
monument  of  pride  wherein  to  bury  myself  from 
the  godless  crowd.  I  will  work  alone,  in  austere 
silence,  nourishing  my  mind  with  ancient  truths, 
and  I  will  sleep,  with  my  mouth  full  of  earth,  in 
the  purple  of  the  days  I  have  called  to  life  again." 
There  is  a  great  personal  grief  in  these  nobly 
chiselled  poems  of  Giraud :  a  grief  deepened  by 
bitter  experience  after  the  playful  melancholy  of 
his  first  books,  Pierrot  Lunaire  and  Pierrot  Nar- 
cisse,  which  show  his  consummate  mastery  of  intri- 
cate measures.  Fitted  to  the  poet's  pride  and 
grief  is  the  full-mouthed  resonance  of  his  vocabu- 
lary :  "  under  the  pride  of  his  blood  proud  and 
splendid  words  rear  in  his  voice  like  stallions." 
He  has  interpreted  himself  in  his  poignant  poem 
"  Resignation  " : 

"  I  have  fought  against  myself,  I  have  cried  in  pain, 
Writhed  breathless  in  my  wounded  spirit's  night, 
And  with  my  life  in  rags,  a  piteous  sight, 
I  come  out  of  the  Hell  which  is  my  brain. 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  I  know  full  well  to-day,  my  dream  was  mad  ; 
My  love  of  autumn  was  a  crime,  no  doubt ; 
And  like  a  nail  I  tear  the  yearning  out 
That  my  too  simple  heart  for  childhood  had. 

"  My  cross  !     Lance  in  my  side !     I  bring  to  you 
This  verse  like  Christmas  evenings  white  and  calm, 
When  the  sovran  palpitation  of  the  palm 
Hovers  against  the  heaven's  freezing  blue ; 

"  This  verse  whereinto  all  my  grief  shall  pass, 
Verse  of  a  man  resigned,  misunderstood. 
Verse  into  which  my  love  must  shed  its  blood, 
Long  bleeding,  like  a  sunset  in  stained  glass." 

Poetry  like  stained  glass  windows !  Nothing 
else  could  characterise  Giraud's  style  so  well. 

But  the  stained  glass  windows  of  his  poems  are 
not  filled  with  saints.  His  characters  are  by  pre- 
ference voluptuous  and  vicious  princes,  cardinals, 
soldiers.  His  scenes  of  vice  haVe  a  seductive 
glamour,  and  under  their  envelope  of  impersonal 
description  peers  the  vehement  and  audacious  ap- 
proval of  the  poet.  Giraud  is  an  unashamed 
Satanist,  the  most  brilliant  heir  of  Baudelaire. 

Belgian  Satanism  —  the  most  intellectual  ex- 
pression of  Satanism  (for  Maurice  Rollinat's  poetry 

256 


The  Parnassian  Poets 

is  mere  dirt) — derives  directly  from  Baudelaire's 
Fleurs  du  Mai.  It  was  a  fateful  day  for  I  wan 
Gilkin  when  Albert  Giraud  at  Louvain  thrust  this 
most  eventful  of  modern  books  of  verse  into  his 
hand.  Giraud  had  saturated  his  mind  with  the 
exhalations  of  these  poisonous  flowers  ;  Gilkin  was 
overwhelmed  by  them.  Giraud  found  a  refuge 
from  the  horror  of  the  present  (which  to  him  was 
only  horrible  because  it  was  ugly)  in  the  spectacular 
depravity  of  the  Renaissance ;  Gilkin  burrowed 
himself  into  the  poisoned  present,  and  dreamed 
a  vision  of  Hell  on  Earth  by  the  side  of  which 
all  the  other  pessimistic  books  of  the  period  are 
feeble  and  tame.  He  declares  his  purpose  in 
"  Psychology  "  : 

"  A  surgeon,  I  the  souls  of  men  dissect, 
Bending  my  feverish  brow  above  their  shameless 
Perversions,  sins,  and  vices,  all  their  nameless 
Primitive  lusts  and  appetites  unchecked. 

"  Upon  my  marble  men  and  women  spread 

Their  open  bellies,  where  I  find  the  hidden 

Ulcers  of  passions  filthy  and  forbidden. 

And  probe  the  secret  wounds  of  dramas  dread. 
257  R 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Then,    while   my    arms    with    scrofulous    blood    are 
dyed, 
I  note  in  poems  clear  with  scrupulous  art 
What  my  keen  eyes  in  these  dark  deeps  descried. 

"  And  if  I  need  a  subject,  I  am  able 
To  stretch  myself  on  the  dissecting  table. 
And  drive  the  scalpel  into  my  own  heart." 

He  describes  himself  as  a  wicked  gardener 
casting  his  seeds  into  hasty  brains  and  watching 
the  flowering  of  his  poison.  His  denunciation  of 
the  modern  city  is  absolutely  without  relief — "  Un- 
clean city,"  he  hails  it,  '*  thou  sewer  wherein,  with 
mud  between  their  teeth  and  leprosy  in  their 
bodies,  fetid  carcasses  croak,  grimacing  rites 
grotesque  with  age.  .  .  ."  He  calls  the  capital  "a 
dolorous  fruit  whose  bursten  skin  and  too  ripened 
pulp  dye  their  rich  rottenness  with  green  gold, 
violet,  and  red  phosphorus ;  a  fruit  oozing  a  sickly 
sweet,  thick,  cancerous  juice.  ..."  He  reviles  the 
city,  but  his  chiding  hints  of  a  perverse  love  : 

"  The  penitent  of  cities  damned  am  I. 
In  shameful  taverns  where  rank  liquors  flow, 
And  in  new  Sodoms  viciously  aglow. 
Where  outrage  hides  its  lusts  with  murder  nigh, 
258 


The  Parnassian  Poets 

"  I  watch  in  flaring  nights  with  mournful  eye, 
And  shuddering  hear  what  monsters  still  we  grow. 
And  all  the  crimes  of  men  oppress  me  so 
I  call  for  vengeance  to  the  angered  sky. 

"  Wrathful  as  prophets  went  in  Holy  Writ, 
I  walk  with  haggard  cheek  in  public  places. 
Confessing  sins  that  I  do  not  commit. 

"  And  the  Pharisees  cry  out  with  upturned  faces  : 
I  thank  Thee,  God,  that  I  am  not  as  this 
Infamous  poet  by  Thy  judgment  is  !  " 

Unhappiness  is  to  him  a  mental  rapture :  *'  Be 
sad ;  love  unhappiness,"  whispers  to  him  the  black- 
winged  angel  that  bends  over  his  pillow,  "un- 
happiness has  the  savour  of  a  noble  and  impure 
virgin."  His  view  of  man's  activity  is  withering : 
man,  crawling  through  his  native  mud,  is  a  vulgar 
tool  of  flesh  perpetuating  flesh,  a  mere  ring  of 
the  vital  Beast  that  writhes  its  long  snake's  belly 
through  the  infinite. 

A  hint  of  these  exasperated  images  is  sufificient 
to  show  that  they  overshoot  the  mark  of  poetry. 
Gilkin's  La  Nuit  (his  only  book  of  verse  that 
counts)  is  exceedingly  interesting  as  the  most  out- 
spoken elaboration  of  Satanistic  pessimism ;  but  it 

has    about   the   same   relation   to    poetry   as   very 

259 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

good  scene-painting  has  to  the  painting  of  an  artist 
— it  has  glamour  and  great  effect  when  seen  from 
a  distance  and  in  its  proper  historical  perspective ; 
but  it  will  not  bear  too  close  inspection.  At  all 
events  it  has  one  great  quality — it  proves  the 
absurdity  (as  a  poetic  system)  of  "  Satanism,"  a 
perversion  of  the  mind  which  Baudelaire's  and 
Giraud's  poetry  almost  seem  to  justify. 

"  Giraud  has  seen  his  beautiful  poems,"  said 
Albert  Mockel  in  an  old  criticism,  "  Fernand 
Sdverin  has  felt  his."  In  other  words,  Giraud  is 
a  Fleming ;  Severin  is  a  Walloon.  To  English 
readers,  S^verin's  exquisitely  refined  poetry  must 
seem  somewhat  morbid  in  its  feeling.  He  is 
another  poet  of  an  attitude :  he  is  dowered  with 
"the  gift  of  youth";  he  is  cloistered  in  his  vir- 
ginity ;  he  holds  anaemic  converse  with  his  pale 
visions.  Did  ever  any  poet  declare  his  love  of 
studious  solitude  with  a  quainter  pretentiousness 
(which  nevertheless  reads  poetically  true)  than 
Severin  in  his  "Sovran  State ".»* 

"  In  nights  impure  moans  one  with  fever  stricken  : 
'  Lord  !  let  a  maiden  bring  me,  for  I  sicken, 
Water  and  grapes,  and  quench  my  thirst  with  them. 

260 


The  Parnassian  Poets 

"  '  Spring  water  !     Fruits  of  a  virgin  vine  !     And  let 
Her  fresh  and  virgin  hands  lie  on  the  fret 
Of  my  King's  brow  burnt  by  its  diadem.' 

"  O  pitiful  crown  upon  a  head  so  lowly  ! 
Does  the  unquiet  night  allegiance  show  thee  ? 
Thou  King  of  beautiful  lands  that  never  were. 

"  '  O  stars  among  the  trees  !     O  waters  pale  ! 
Comes  the  expected  dawn  in  opal  veil  ? 
Pity  the  tired  and  lonely  sufferer : 

" '  And  grant  me,  Lord,  after  the  night  out-drawn, 
The  sleep  and  boon  of  Thy  forgiving  dawn  ; 
And  let  Thy  chosen  heart  no  longer  bleed ! ' 

"  But  answer  makes  the  Lord  in  stern  denial : 
'  Leave  thou,  for  nobler  verse,  to  pain  and  trial 
Thy  heart,  the  open  book  the  angels  read.'  " 

This  is  a  proud  conception,  a  poet-king  doomed 
by  God  to  virginity  for  poetry's  sake ;  but  S^verin 
has  reached  the  opposite  extreme  of  humility  in 
his  •'  The  Lily  of  the  Valley  "  : 

"  I  feel  my  heart  for  ever  dying,  bruised 
By  all  the  love  it  never  will  have  used, 
Dying  in  silence,  and  with  angels  by, 
As  simply  as  in  cradles  infants  die, 
Infants  that  have  no  speech. 

O  God-given  heart, 
Guarded  by  vigilant  seraphim  thou  art ! 

261 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Nothing  shall  soil  thy  natal  raiment !     Thou, 

Rest  thee  content  with  no  kiss  on  thy  brow, 

Save  of  maternal  summer  eves,  and  die 

In  thy  desire  and  thy  virginity. 

Thy  sacrifice  has  made  thee  shy  and  proud ; 

Thy  life  with  very  emptiness  is  bowed. 

Made  to  be  loved,  loved  thou  shalt  never  be, 

Though  many  maids  would  stretch  their  arms  to  thee. 

As  to  the  Prince  who  through  their  fancies  rides. 

Alas  !  and  thou  hast  never  known  these  brides  ; 

To  thee  they  come  not  when  calm  evening  falls, 

The  pensive  maids  to  whom  thy  longing  calls ; 

And  thou  art  dying  of  thy  love  unused, 

Poor  sterile  heart,  my  heart  for  ever  bruised  ! " 

These  attitudinal  poems  (there  is  every  evidence 

that   they  are   sincere)  have   a  seductive    charm ; 

and  they  are  rendered  all  the  more  fascinating  by 

the  antique  Racinian  language  in  v^rhich  they  trail 

their    pathetic    notes — as    though    some    neurotic 

aesthete  of  our  own    days    should  write  plaintive 

poems  of  modern   nerves  in  the  diction  of  Pope. 

And    S^verin's   nature    poems,    though   ostensibly 

more   mature,    have    the   same    note  of  shrinking 

averseness  from  the  world.     His  nearest  approach 

to    a    manly    independence   is   crystallised    in    his 

poem  "A  Sage  "  : 

262 


The  Parnassian  Poets 

"  He  knows  dreams  never  kept  their  promise  yet. 
Henceforth  without  desire,  without  regret, 
He  cons  the  page  of  sober  tenderness 
In  which  some  poet,  skilled  in  life's  distress, 
Breathed  into  olden,  golden  verse  his  sighs. 
Sometimes  he  lifts  his  head,  and  feeds  his  eyes. 
With  all  the  wonderment  that  wise  men  know, 
On  fields,  and  clouds  that  over  forests  go, 
And  with  their  calmness  sated  in  his  thought. 
He  knows  how  dearly  fair  renown  is  bought : 
He,  too,  in  earlier  days  of  stinging  strength, 
Sought  that  vain  victory  to  find  at  length 
Sadness  at  his  desire's  precipitous  brink.  .  .  . 
Of  what  avail,  he  thought,  to  act  and  think, 
When  human  joy  holds  all  in  one  rapt  look  ? 
His  mind  at  peace  reads  Nature  like  a  book. 
He  smiles,  remembering  his  youth's  unrest, 
And,  though  none  know  it,  he  is  wholly  blest." 

S^verin's  poems  are  collected  in  one  volume : 
Po^mes  (1908).  But  this  book,  unfortunately, 
does  not  include  the  first  item  in  the  poet's  works, 
Le  Lys  (1888),  which  is  a  collector's  prize. 

Of  the  young  Albertian  Parnassians,  Raymond 
Limbosch  is  at  least  one  of  the  most  promising. 
His  Faunesques  (19 14)  contains  verse  of  distinction. 


263 


CHAPTER   IX 

EUGENE   DEMOLDER 

After  Lemonnier  and  Eekhoud  the  most  dis- 
tinguished of  the  Flemish  novelists  is  Eugene 
Demolder,  of  whom  it  might  be  said  that  he  is 
the  greatest  painter  in  Belgian  literature.  He 
was  for  some  time  a  juge  de  paix,  and  in  his 
memoirs,  Sous  la  Robe,  he  has  given  us  interesting 
sketches  of  judicial  and  literary  life  in  Belgium, 
with  portraits  which  live  and  breathe  of  eminent 
colleagues — Picard,  Vandervelde,  and  others. 

Demolder's  style  has  already  been  referred  to : 
it  consists  from  first  to  last  in  a  most  cunning 
transposition  of  pictures.  Demolder's  knowledge 
of  painting  must  be  immense ;  and  he  is  able  to 
reproduce  in  words  not  merely  the  outlines  and 
colours  of  a  picture,  but  the  very  soul  of  its 
meaning. 

It  is  not  difficult   to   find  the   models  for  the 

book  that  made  him  known,   Les   Contes  d'Yper- 

264 


Eugene  Demolder 

damme  (1891),  now  published  in  one  volume  with 
another  book,  Les  R^cits  de  Nazareth,  as  La 
L^gende  dYperdamme;  probably  he  derived  in- 
spiration from  Maeterlinck's  Massacre  of  the 
Innocents  (which  is  a  transposition  of  Breughel's 
picture  of  the  same  name)  and  Balzac's  J^sus- 
Christ  en  Flandre.  Yperdamme  is  some  mythical 
village  on  the  Flemish  coast. 

"  It  is  the  curious  city,"  says  Eugene  Gilbert,  "  that 
we  see  in  the  pictures  of  Breughel  and  Jan  Stcen,  the 
city  overlooked  by  its  high  cathedral  whose  delicate 
tracery  sparkles  with  hoar-frost,  the  city  girdled  with 
moats  over  which,  in  hard  frosts,  red-faced  skaters  glide 
along  in  their  warm  clothing." 

To  this  old-world  Flemish  city  the  events  nar- 
rated in  the  Gospels  are  transferred  in  a  series  of 
grotesque  and  naive  anachronisms.  Thus  we  have 
the  miraculous  draught  of  fishes,  and  the  fishermen 
are  Flemish,  such  fishermen  as  you  may  see  to-day 
on  the  dunes  about  Ostend.  There  is  the  eve  of 
the  Nativity,  with  the  farmers  and  fishermen  coming 
from  Fumes  and  Coxyde  and  Dixmude  to  Beth- 
lehem, and  they   are    "  mounted   on   great  horses 

without  harness  and  without  saddles,   holding  on 

265 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

firmly  "  (as  in  pictures  that  everyone  will  remember) 
"to  the  manes  of  the  animals,  whose  nostrils  are 
steaming."  At  Bethlehem  the  church  door  is  open, 
and  all  the  stained  glass  windows  are  flowered  with 
light ;  midnight  mass  is  being  celebrated.  On  the 
Flight  to  Egypt  Joseph  and  Mary  and  the  Child 
come  to  the  dunes,  and  then  the  farms  with  the 
great  red  roofs  fade  from  sight,  and  soon  they  come 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Scheldt  and  to  Flushing.  It 
is  at  Yperdamme  that  the  Massacre  of  the  Inno- 
cents begins,  and  as  soon  as  the  murdering  bands 
come  into  the  streets  of  the  city,  the  Black  Virgin, 
the  fishermen's  miraculous  tutelary  saint,  weeps  in 
the  cathedral.  It  is  in  the  Campine  that  the 
prodigal  son  tends  swine,  with  his  heart  bleeding 
to  go  back  to  his  father's  farm  far  away  in  fair 
Brabant.  Such  a  medley  of  quaint  distortion  may 
seem  absurd  to  those  who  do  not  know  with  what 
delight  the  Flemish  people  love  to  familiarise  the 
Gospels.  Flemish  art  and  Flemish  literature  are 
full  of  things  of  this  kind — keeping  the  gross  realism 
of  mediaeval  ignorance  as  in  Pol  de  Mont's  cycle 
of  ballads  "  Of  Jesus,"  or  subtly  modernised  and 

the  vehicle   of  a   delicate   symbolism   as   in    Max 

266 


Eugene  Demolder 

Elskamp's  magic  verses.  There  is  only  one  charge 
to  be  made  against  La  L^gende  dYperdamme:  it 
postulates  an  attitude  of  naivetd,  and  the  fiawet^ 
is  strangled  by  the  conscious  and  elaborate  art 
of  the  narration.  Demolder  was  emerging ;  but 
he  is  not  yet  sufficiently  master  of  his  method  to 
hide  the  process  of  his  labour.  The  same  might 
be  said  of  Le  Royaume  authentique  du  grand 
Saint  Nicolasy  ostensibly  a  Christmas  tale  for 
children. 

In  La  Route  dEmeraude,  surely  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  novels  of  this  century,  he  is  past 
master  of  his  manner.  The  book  is  an  uninter- 
rupted chain  of  pictures,  the  originals  of  which  even 
a  layman  can  recognise.  The  scene  is  in  Holland 
in  the  seventeenth  century.  Kobus  Barent,  a 
miller's  son  in  a  quiet  village  on  the  Meuse  near 
Dordrecht,  is  a  born  painter,  and  instinct  teaches 
him  to  draw.  The  old  miller  does  not  approve 
of  painting,  but  in  the  end  he  lets  him  go,  and 
finds  a  master  for  him  at  Haarlem.  This  is  Frantz 
Krul,  a  famous  painter  of  portraits  and  genre 
pictures.      Krul  is   apparently    modelled    on    Jan 

Steen : 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Frantz  Krul,  with  his  jovial  face  barred  by  a  brown 
moustache  curled  upwards  at  the  ends,  a  ruddy  face,  large 
laughing  eyes  rolling  under  his  forehead,  over  which  a  lock 
or  so  falls  negligently,  curved  nose,  sensual  as  a  satyr's, 
arched  mouth,  gluttonous  and  bantering — the  mouth  of 
a  man  who  loves  to  make  a  festivity  of  life — Frantz  Krul, 
with  his  square  shoulders  and  broad  trunk,  is  handling 
the  brush  with  agility  in  front  of  a  huge  canvas." 

Lessing  tried  to  prove  that  the  painting  of  a 
picture  in  words  is  an  impossibility,  for,  he  thought, 
the  mind  can  only  take  in  one  detail  at  a  time, 
and  the  parts  of  the  picture  fade  from  the  interior 
eye  as  the  description  proceeds.  Lessing's  reason- 
ing was  sound ;  but  his  conclusion  would  seem 
to  be  controverted  by  Demolder's  transpositions. 
Possibly  it  is  because  one  almost  always  recollects 
the  canvas  Demolder  is  transcribing.  Who,  for 
instance,  can  read  the  description  of  Frantz  Krul's 
jovial  face  and  burly  figure  without  recalling  Jan 
Steen's  portrait  of  himself? 

At    Haarlem    Kobus    pursues    his    studies,    as 

much  in  taverns  as  in  the  atelier,,  for   Krul  and 

his  pupils  are  great  drinkers,   and  lovers  of  rich 

viands,   "and   'the  rest,'  as   La  Fontaine  said,  in 

a  word  of  excessive  shamefulness."     (The  joke  is 

268 


Eugene  Demolder 

from  another  tale  of  Demolder's,  L'Agonie  dAlbiony 
the  hero  of  which  is  a  Dutchman  who  hates  the 
British,  on  account  of  the  atrocities  they  committed 
in  the  Boer  War.)  Kobus  falls  in  love  with  Krul's 
model  Siska,  a  courtesan.  She  is  a  dark-skinned 
woman  of  Spanish  parentage,  which  is  the  reason 
why  she  has  not  the  short  legs  that  the  Haarlem 
women  have.  She  had  been  found  wrapped  up 
in  a  brown  rag,  at  the  time  of  the  war  with  Spain  ; 
and  fishermen  had  reared  her  in  the  wind  of  the 
sea,  and  she  had  grown  up  like  a  goat  among  the 
sand-grasses.  Her  first  lover  was  a  sailor-boy 
who  was  killed  by  an  English  bullet  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Thames.  In  the  end  she  was  carried  off 
by  an  officer  of  the  Dutch  fleet ;  and  after  that 
she  wore  silk.  Kobus  shuts  his  eyes  to  her  past, 
and  goes  with  her  to  Amsterdam,  where  he  ex- 
periences all  the  raptures  of  passion  and  all  the 
agonies  of  jealousy  and  despair — for  Siska  must 
live,  and  live  in  luxury,  and  her  lover  earns  little 
or  nothing.  But  what  is  the  intrigue  to  the  superb 
evocation  of  Amsterdam,  with  its  ramparts  and 
gables  and  towers,  the  forest  of  masts  in  the  port, 

its  labyrinth  of  canals,  its  smells  of  turf  and  tar 

269 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

and  brine  and  spices,  its  herrings  and  smoked  eels, 
its  warehouses  and  taverns  and  brothels,  its  mer- 
chants and  art-dealers !  Siska  is  wonderful ;  here 
is  a  woman  of  bad  character  painted  with  such 
charm  and  freshness  that  one  cannot  be  angry 
with  her  at  her  worst.  But  it  is  an  auspicious 
day  for  Kobus  when,  deserting  him,  she  sets  sail 
for  the  Spanish  Main  in  the  company  of  a  Spanish 
captain.  Kobus,  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  returns 
to  his  old  father  and  the  old  mill,  and  achieves 
fame  as  a  painter  while  pursuing  the  nerve-reposing 
avocation  of  a  miller.  (This  is  in  the  tradition  : 
Jan  Steen  was  a  brewer,  Goyen  sold  tulips,  Van 
de  Cappelle  was  a  dyer,  and  Joost  van  den  Vondel 
wrote  his  poetry  in  the  back  parlour  while  his  good 
wife  sold  stockings  in  the  shop.) 

And  the  hidden  meaning  ?  For  Demolder  was 
a  symbolist,  one  of  the  primitives,  as  may  be  seen 
by  the  way  he  awakens  sonorities  on  canvas.  It 
is  this  :  the  fate  of  Kobus  is  that  of  his  country. 
His  childhood  dreamed  by  the  marshes,  along  the 
banks  of  rivers,  under  the  willows.  Then  he  fought 
his  fight  with  the  strange,  dark  woman,  with  Spain  ; 

and  he  was  near  being  worsted.     But  when  by  the 

270 


Eugene  Demolder 

strength  of  his  nature  he  had  overcome  her,  and 
recovered  from  the  poison  of  her,  he  returned  to 
his  toil  and  his  art,  and  became  a  rich  burgher, 
and  married  G^sina,  the  rich  baiHffs  daughter, 
and  had  chocolate  and  peaches  for  breakfast  every 
morning,  and  lived  happy  ever  after!  "That  is 
the  history  of  Holland." 

La  Route  (V ^meraude  (The  Road  to  the  Colours 
of  Hope)  is  packed  with  adventure :  it  is  a  novel 
in  the  sense  accepted  by  circulating  libraries.  The 
characters  (Rembrandt  is  one — he  is  sold  up  in 
the  course  of  the  story)  are  fascinating  in  them- 
selves ;  they  are  a  gallery  of  living  men  and  women. 
But  what  is  the  adventure,  what  is  the  gallery  of 
men  and  women,  to  the  gallery  of  paintings  that 
illuminate  the  book  ?  Paintings  that  are  never 
hung  in  the  wrong  place,  but  which  seem  to  be 
in  the  only  place  where  they  could  possibly  be. 
Here  is  a  picture  of  a  soldier  with  the  light  on 
his  sword — is  it  not  more  out  of  place  in  a  frame 
on  a  wall  than  seen  as  an  episode  in  the  daily 
life  of  a  street  ? 

"  Farther  on  a  soldier  is  walking.  Planted  in  boots 
widened    at    the    knees,   he    throws    his    cloak    over    his 

271 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

shoulder  to  show  the  broad  embroidered  belt  that  squeezes 
his  waist ;  a  plume  waves  from  his  bonnet  ;  his  sword, 
the  handle  of  which  he  grips,  resembles,  as  soon  as  he 
leaves  the  shadow  of  the  walls,  a  wand  of  fire." 

Kobus  has  to  choose  between  two  schools  of 
painting,  that  of  jolly  Frantz  Krul  and  that  of  the 
man  with  the  vague  bitterness  on  his  lips  and  the 
eyelids  swollen  with  long  labour.  Rembrandt 
himself,  in  a  conversation  with  Krul,  contrasts  the 
two  styles : 

"  Verily  it  is  a  joy  to  conjure  forth  sanguine  glories, 
flashes  of  rosy  flesh.  Your  temperament  drives  you 
to  it,  moreover.  Nudity  for  you  must  be  triumphant 
and  luxuriant.  Your  ideal  is  a  Venus  of  firm  out- 
lines, born  from  the  foam  of  the  North  Sea,  and  the 
patroness  of  sturdy  fisher  folk  and  sailors.  And  you 
love  to  immortalise  drinkers  in  their  cups,  bedizened 
banquets,  festival  costumes  with  orange-tinted  scarves. 
But  don't  you  think,  Krul,  that  an  emaciated  body  hides 
a  beauty  just  as  great  ?  It  is  a  different  beauty.  I 
swear  to  you,  when  a  beggar-woman,  feverish  and  trem- 
bling, disrobes  in  my  atelier,  I  experience  an  artistic 
emotion  just  as  great  as  if  she  were  Helen  or  Cleopatra. 
In  the  legend  of  her  lean  limbs  I  read  the  painful 
chronicle  of  her  life,  her  resignation  in  humble  tasks, 
the  exhaustion  come  of  her  repeated  maternity :  I  see 
all  human  sadness,  which  is  immense,  in  her  tired  spine 

272 


Eugene  Demolder 


and  wasted  frame.  And  tenderly  I  apply  myself,  with 
all  the  compassion  that  grips  me,  to  interpret  the  sombre 
lassitude  of  her  muscles,  the  traces  of  her  clothing,  of 
burdens  she  has  carried,  of  diseases  that  leave  marks  of 
grief  as  tears  do  on  the  face.  I  render  the  pale,  yellow 
tone  of  her  skin,  with  the  red  spots  that  give  it  the 
desolate  tints  of  autumn,  and  with  the  folds  that  trace 
lax  curves  in  her  flesh.  And  is  not  that  life  too  ?  Is 
there  nothing  but  joy  in  the  world  ?  By  the  side  of  one 
peony  that  blooms,  is  there  not  another  that  withers  and 
sheds  its  petals  ?  And  does  not  a  dying  woman,  amid 
the  wrinkled  agony  of  her  colours,  perform  a  function 
quite  as  deep  as  the  harmony  of  things  ?  " 

Les  Patins  de  la  Reine  de  Hollande  is  a  highly- 
embroidered  version,  charged  with  symbolism,  of 
the  old  legend  of  a  girl  brought  up  in  complete 
ignorance  of  sex  and  from  whom,  when  puberty 
comes,  the  facts  of  life  cannot  be  hidden.  Through 
all  the  bright  colouring  of  the  book  runs  like  a 
black  thread  the  idea  that  Death  skates  along  the 
dizzy  roads  of  life  with  Sex.  Walburge,  the 
orphaned  daughter  of  the  Comte  de  Rupelmonde, 
grows  up  in  solitude  in  a  castle  on  the  Scheldt. 
She  is  guarded  by  a  faithful  serving-woman, 
Bertrane.     They  are  sequestered  from  the  world ; 

temptation   and   danger  are   far   away.      But   the 

273  3 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

longing  of  awakened  instinct  conies  to  the  girl, 
and  now  the  world  seems  to  beleaguer  the  castle. 
Walburge  is  assailed  by  vague  desires.  She  sits 
at  her  casement  watching  the  sea-gulls  flying  to 
the  sea,  which,  Bertrane  tells  her,  is  as  vast  as 
the  sky.  She  sees  caravans  of  merchants  passing, 
bearing  perfumes  of  Araby,  blades  of  Toledo, 
carpets  from  Smyrna,  Cordovan  leather.  They 
are  sunburnt  under  their  silk  turbans,  and  they 
caress  their  beards  nonchalantly.  She  would  fain 
see  what  they  bear  in  their  boxes ;  but  she  is  too 
poor,  Bertrane  says.  Walburge  cannot  be  kept 
any  longer  in  imprisonment,  and  one  day,  when 
the  Scheldt  is  frozen  hard,  Bertrane  brings  her  a 
pair  of  magic  skates  which  the  Queen  of  Holland 
used  to  wear  when  she  was  sixteen  and  went  to 
see  her  lover.  Bertrane  has  another  pair  for  her- 
self.    Now  Walburge  sets  forth  to  see  Flanders. 

Soon  they  are  aware  that  a  companion  has 
joined  them,  and  is  skating  along  with  them.  It 
is  Death.  They  come  to  a  city,  which  is  filled 
to  overflowing  with  people  making  merry :  it  is 
carnival    time.       Death    picks    up    a    flute,    and, 

dancing  with  a  crimson  galloon  round  his  temples, 

274 


Eugene  Demolder 

leads  a  troop  of  drunken  revellers  to  the  brothel. 

It  is  the  Dance  of  Death.     Death  blows  his  green 

breath  into  the  faces   of  the   burghers,    and   they 

fall  down  and   die:    it  is  the   Plague.     Walburge 

skates   on   and   on,    to   the    Fairy    Prince   who   is 

coming  to  meet  her.     She  cannot  stay,  for  she  is 

Passion   faring  forth  to  the  arms  of  Fate.      But 

Bertrane   is   left   behind,    for   she   is    Resignation, 

whom  Passion  must  abandon.     Walburge  finds  her 

Prince,  and  he  tells  her   how  he   has   braved  the 

angry  waves  to  seek  her.     "The  wind,"  he  says, 

"lifted  round  my  bark  the  furious  lace  that  it  tears 

from  the  blue  breast  of  the  sea.'*     He  threw  back 

his  cloak,  and  bared  his  cuirass,  which  shone  like 

a  mirror.     In  it  the  young  Countess  of   Flanders 

saw  her  fair  hair  reflected,  and  her  eyes  that  were 

the  colour   of  pale    cornflowers,  and    her  lips  like 

fresh  coral :  so  that  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 

living  in  the   very  heart   of  her   betrothed.     And 

they  go  to  his  castle  in  the  Land  of  Spring. 

Le  Jardinier  de  la  Pompadour  may   well    be 

flowered,    for   it   is   the    book    of    the   soul    of    a 

gardener,  who  loves  Madame  de  Pompadour,  and 

raises  the  flowers  with  which,  and  her  own  bloom, 

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Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

she  snares  the  heart  of  King  Louis.  Demolder 
wrote  this  novel  at  Essonnes  in  the  province  of 
Seine-et-Oise,  and  here  he  received  an  unexpected 
visit  from  MaeterHnck,  to  whom  he  had  sent  the 
first  copy,  and  who  had  at  once  set  out  in  his 
motor-car  to  point  out  that  dahlias  were  mentioned 
among  the  flowers  nurtured  by  Madame  de  Pom- 
padour's gardener — a  flower  which,  as  everybody 
knows,  had  not  been  introduced  into  Europe  at 
that  period.  The  flower-pictures  are  delightful. 
Here  is  one,  of  tuberoses,  a  new  flower,  just 
arrived  from  Italy : 

"Jasmin  stopped  in  front  of  two  tuberoses.  White 
on  their  long  green  stalks  and  blushing,  as  though  ashamed 
of  the  voluptuousness  that  breathed  from  their  corollas, 
they  offered  themselves  and  their  heady  scent  in  the 
midst  of  a  group  of  streaked  bromelias  that  seemed 
smitten  with  the  newcomers. 

"  *  Caress  them !  They  are  nice  to  touch,'  said  M. 
Leturcq.  .  .   . 

"  Jasmin  resumed  his  journey,  greatly  marvelling. 
These  tuberoses  !  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  he  had 
been  present  at  the  deshabille  of  a  princess  on  her 
wedding  day,  in  one  of  those  fairy  tales  he  read  in  the 
evenings.  And  he  was  the  bridegroom  !  He  had 
touched  the  white  flesh  :  his  hand  was  still  quite  per- 
fumed with  it." 

276 


Eugene  Demolder 

In  the  background  the  revolution  smoulders ; 
and  there  is  a  shadow  over  the  gay  scenes  where 
the  monarch  sports  himself  with  his  minions  and 
his  dames. 

Demolder's  colouring  Is  equally  rich  in  his  one 
book  of  travel,  L'Espagne  en  Auto,  His  playlet, 
La  Mort  aux  Berceaux^  which  places  the  Massacre 
of  the  Innocents  in  a  mediaeval  castle,  is  at  least 
curious. 

At  the  lowest  estimate,  Demolder  is  a  writer 
of  great  power.  No  other  Belgian  prose- writer 
has  so  brilliant  a  style.  Perhaps  there  is  not  a 
more  luminous  colourist  in  any  literature.  All  his 
works  are  flooded  with  light :  they  are  illuminated 
texts.  There  is  shadow  here  and  there  ;  but  it  is 
only  such  shadow  as  you  might  have  in  an  orchard 
on  a  day  of  blazing  sunshine. 

He  will  probably  never  be  translated  into 
English,  for  in  this  country  he  would  be  con- 
sidered obscene.  He  revels  in  sexual  images,  and 
(to  English  eyes)  impossible  situations.  But  he 
is  never  filthy.  Eekhoud  is  distinctly  filthy;  but 
Demolder's  obscenity  is  quite  different.  His  is  a 
laughing  effrontery,  a  most  delicate  idealisation  of 

sexual  sensations. 

277 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

For  Eugene  Demolder  praise  must  not  be 
stinted.  If  he  has  faults,  they  are  venial.  He 
disarms  criticism  by  his  debonair  and  unassuming 
manner,  by  his  jovial  unconcern  (he  is  the  Jan 
Steen  of  Belgian  literature),  as  who  should  say : 
**  All  this,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  for  your 
pleasure,  not  your  betterment.  I  leave  preaching 
to  the  jaundiced,  while  myself  I  laugh  and  grow 
fat."  Life  is  sad,  he  makes  Rembrandt  say: 
but  the  lowering  clouds  bring  storms,  and  the 
storms  pass,  and  the  sun  shines  out  again.  Jan 
Steen  may  listen  to  Rembrandt,  and  love  and 
reverence  him,  and  yet  remain  Jan  Steen,  and 
delight  in  God's  warm  sunshine,  and  in  good 
cheer,  and  "  the  rest  "... 


278 


CHAPTER  X 

FLEMISH   NOVELISTS  AND   DRAMATISTS 

Georges   Virr^s   is   usually  bracketed  with  Eek- 

houd  as  a  novelist  of  the  Campine.     This  region 

(but  more  to  the  east)  is  the  invariable  scene  of 

his  tales ;  and  in  the  preface  to  La  Glebe  Hdro'ique 

he  proclaims  that  he  is  as  devoted  as  Eekhoud  is 

to  these  wastes  of  heather.     But  there  is  a  great 

difference  between  the   two :    while  Eekhoud  is  a 

rebel  against   all   authority,  including   that   of  the 

Church,  Georges  Virres  is  a  pious  Roman  Catholic. 

This   fundamental    difference    in    ideas   would    be 

sufficient   to   prevent   any  great   similarity  in   the 

works  of  the  two  authors ;  but  they  have  the  same 

love  of  the  Campine   peasants,    and    in   the  main 

details  their  conceptions  of  this  primal  race  agree. 

Both  are  full  of  sympathy  for  the  hard  lot  of  those 

who  spend  their  lives  reclaiming  the  waste.     Virres, 

like   Eekhoud,   shows    the    Campine    peasants   in 

their  violent  fits,  and  there  is  much  of  death  and 

279 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

fatality  in  his  work  also ;  but  to  him  the  peasants 
of  his  race  are  in  the  first  place  mystics,  as  devoted 
to  pilgrimages  and  religious  processions  as  they 
are  to  kermesses. 

The  style  of  Virr^s  is  somewhat  sluggish,  but 
his  slow-moving  periods  lead  to  climaxes.  He  is 
above  all  an  observer  of  character  and  customs. 
His  Hommes  et  Choses  d* Aujourd' hui,  for  instance, 
is  pre-eminently  a  collection  of  folklore,  full  of  little 
pictures  illustrating  quaint  customs  and  beliefs, 
as  for  instance  that  in  certain  Limburg  villages 
widows  cling  to  the  coffin  and  in  the  cemetery 
go  through  an  old  pantomime  of  quarrelling  for  it 
with  the  gravedigger.  s 

Virres  began  his  series  of  Campine  tales  with 

En    Pleine     Terre.      The     book    is    warm    with 

affection  for    the    land    and    its    people,    but   the 

style  is  too  laboured  and  lyrical.     The  prose  sings 

too  much ;  the  images   are  a  medley.     The  same 

holds    good   of   La    Bruyere    Ardente,    in    which 

the  colours  flame  like  sunsets  over  purple  heaths. 

L'Inconnu    Tragique  tells  of   an   epidemic   which 

carries  off  the  cattle  of  a  district  in  the  Campine. 

In  their  terror  the  peasants  pray  to  God  to  avert 

280 


Flemish  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

the  plague,  and  it  seems  to  be  passing  when,  one 
evening,  one  of  them  loses  control  of  himself  and 
creates  a  scene  in  a  tavern,  with  the  result,  as  it 
seems  to  them,  that  the  Lord  hardens  His  heart 
and  the  wind  of  corruption  blows  over  the  land. 
In  La  Glebe  Hero'ique  we  follow  the  fortunes  of 
the  peasants'  rebellion  which  Eekhoud  describes 
in  Les  FusilUs  de  Malines.  In  Les  Gens  de  Tiest 
Virr^s  paints  with  great  precision  and  delicate 
irony  the  little  town  of  Tongres,  where  he  has 
lived  for  over  twenty  years.  Tiest  and  the  neigh- 
bourhood appear  again  in  Le  Cceur  Timide  (19 12), 
the  hero  of  which  is  a  young  squire  of  irresolute 
character — a  Belgian  type  taken  from  actual  life, 
for  many  Belgians  of  good  family  are  somnolent 
and  dreamy.  The  melancholy  of  the  book  is 
relieved  by  the  humorous  episode  of  an  electoral 
campaign,  in  which  the  socialists  cut  a  sorry  figure. 
Virr^s,  himself  a  squire,  has  in  this  novel  drawn 
masterly  portraits  of  the  Belgian  gentry. 

Lemonnier,  Eekhoud,  Demolder,  and  Virr^s 
belong  to  the  older  generation.  Of  the  younger 
generation  of  French- writing  Flemings,  two  stand 

out  above  the  rest.     These  are  Horace  van  Offel 

281 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

and  Franz  Hellens,  the  first  a  native  of  Antwerp, 
the  second  a  native  of  Ghent. 

I  have  quoted  Eekhoud's  corrosive  satire  on 
the  way  the  national  army  is  regarded  by  the 
Belgians.  This  impression  is  amply  confirmed  by 
the  military  tales  {Une  Armde  de  Pauvres ;  Les 
Enfermds ;  Le  Retour  aux  Lumieres)  of  Horace 
van  Offel,  this  other  Antwerp  rebel,  who  derives  his 
knowledge  from  actual  service  in  the  army.  He 
sees  the  degradation  of  the  conscript ;  he  paints  the 
longing  of  sensitive  men  whom  the  law  of  the 
land  forces  into  the  position  of  pariahs.  But  the 
tales  are  not  all  of  military  life :  Van  Offel  feels  for 
the  poor  as  well  as  for  the  conscript,  and  he  is  able 
to  describe  the  lower  classes  with  first-hand  know- 
ledge, for  he  has  worked  as  a  labourer  at  Lille. 
He  has  written  excellent  stories  of  low  life  in 
Antwerp  (houses  of  ill-fame,  bars  and  barmaids, 
etc.)  The  older  generation  produced  very  few 
effective  plays ;  now  in  King  Albert's  reign  there 
are  signs  of  a  coming  harvest,  and  Van  Offel  is 
one  of  the  most  promising  of  the  young  dramatists. 
His   plays  Les  Intellectuels,   L'Oiseau  Mdcaniqzie, 

La  Victoire,  Le  Loup,   Une  Nuit  de  Shakespeare 

282 


Flemish  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

are  far  better  plays  than  the  dramatic  efforts  of 
most  of  the  veterans.  Urie  Nuit  de  Shakespeare 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  original  of  the 
plays  which  have  Shakespeare  for  a  hero. 

Franz  Hellens  is  nothing  if  not  original.  He 
is  a  new  writer  in  every  sense  of  the  term.  En 
Ville  Morte  (1906),  his  first  book,  is  a  sombre 
evocation  of  Ghent.  Les  Hors-le-Vent  (1909)  is  a 
strange  book,  Rembrandtesque,  tortured — a  collec- 
tion of  studies  in  Gothic  prose.  Hellens  never 
makes  any  pretence  of  telling  a  story :  he  is  a 
painter,  but  a  painter  who  thinks,  and  paints  his 
thought  on  the  canvas.  He  does  not  paint  things 
as  the  eye  sees  them,  but  as  the  mood  sees  them  ; 
and  in  his  case  the  mood  is  determined  not  by 
the  heart,  but  by  the  brain.  In  other  words,  he 
is  a  cerebral  impressionist.  He  does  not  belong 
to  the  impressionist  school :  his  impressionism  is  the 
inevitable  product  of  his  character,  which  is  a  primi- 
tive Flemish  character,  that  is,  a  character  made 
up  of  mysticism.  But  Hellens'  mysticism,  deprived 
of  religion,  appears  in  his  first  two  books  as  a 
Pagan  fatalism  full  of  glow  and  colour.     Hellens 

might  be  called  a  Maeterlinck  in  colours. 

283 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Perhaps  the  best  thing  in  Les  Hors-le-  Vent  is 
"  Les  Soirs  de  Gand,"  a  chain  of  nocturnes  giving 
the  aspects  of  Ghent  by  night. 

In  "Salles  d'Attente,"  another  chapter  of  the 
book,  Hellens  symbolises  the  misery  of  Hfe  help- 
less between  dingy  reality  (the  city)  and  the  mystery 
of  the  unknown  (the  bourne  of  the  railway) :  he 
assembles  a  crowd  of  wretches — navvies,  porters, 
strikers,  soldiers — in  the  waiting-room  of  a  railway 
station.  Here  the  waifs  of  the  city  are  waiting 
for  the  things  that  never  come,  the  things  that  are 
lost  in  the  mists  of  time,  but  forgetting  their  very 
longing  in  the  comfort  of  a  public  fire.  Among 
them  is  Valerie  Droefkind,  an  old  newsvendor. 
The  poor  old  woman  sits  there  dreaming,  with  the 
men  spitting  all  round  her  (and  what  bitter  thoughts 
they  must  have,  she  thinks,  to  spit  like  that  without 
saying  anything),  and  through  her  mind  pass  such 
memories  as  Villon  rhymed  into  his  ballad  of  *'  La 
belle  Heaulmi^re." 

In  Les  Clartds  Latentes  (19 12)  the  colours  are 
brighter :  the  light  that  was  hidden  in  the  darkness 
shines  forth,  and   the  world  is   beautiful.     There 

is  less  vehemence  and  greater  concentration  in  the 

284 


Flemish  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

style  of  this  book :  whereas  in  Les  Hors-le-  Vent 
the  images,  troubled,  grotesque,  careered  in  a  mad 
dance  to  exhaustion,  in  Les  Clartds  Latentes  the 
description  is  slow,  clear,  calm.  A  sunny  joy  in 
life  has  taken  the  place  of  the  angry  fatalism  of 
the  earlier  books.  There  is  a  certain  depth  of 
thought  in  Hellens,  and  there  is  a  fund  of  ideas 
veiled  (and  sometimes  hidden  from  the  searcher) 
in  the  symbolism  of  Les  Claries  Latentes.  But 
(as  is  usually  the  case  with  Flemish  writers)  it  is 
the  picture  rather  than  the  idea  which  remains  in 
the  memory. 

Of  another  Albertian  writer,  Ferdinand  Crom- 
melynck,  I  do  not  know  whether  he  is  a  Fleming 
or  a  Walloon,  but  the  surname  appears  Flemish. 
His  father  was  a  famous  actor.  Crommelynck  is 
one  of  those  young  men  who  write  something  or 
other  and  are  at  once  hailed  as  geniuses ;  every- 
thing that  they  write  afterwards  is  discussed  in 
all  its  bearings  and  is  famous  in  the  literary  caf^s 
(a  feature  of  Brussels  as  of  Paris)  before  it  is 
published.  Crommelynck's  much-praised  poem 
La    Vengeance  de  Papillons^  is  a  throw-back,   in 

^  Le  Masque,  Oct.-Nov.  1910. 
285 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

Mockel's  rhythms,  to  the  manner  of  the  symbolist 
Primitives  ;  it  is  a  very  melodious  jumble  of  Swin- 
burnian  colours  and  images  from  which  no  clear 
sense  emerges,  though  it  seems  to  be  an  elabora- 
tion of  the  commonplace  from  Schopenhauer  that 
when  a  flower  blooms  it  is  withering.  It  is  in 
the  drama  that  Crommelynck  has  done  his  best 
work.  Beside  an  airy  trifle.  Nous  n  irons  plus  au 
bois,  he  has  written  three  remarkable  plays,  Le 
Sculpteur  de  Masques,  Le  Chemin  des  ConquHes,  and 
Le  Marchand  de  Regj^ets.  All  the  plays  except 
the  last  are  in  verse.  They  would  be  masterpieces 
if  it  were  not  for  a  few  slips  or  inconsistencies : 
for  instance,  in  Le  Marchand  de  Regrets  Anne- 
Marie  nestles  close  to  the  miller,  who  is  quite 
white  with  flour,  and  the  flour  does  not  come  off 
on  to  her  clothes.  Crommelynck's  style  bears 
some  relation  to  the  earlier  style  of  Franz  Hellens  : 
it  is  a  style  intensely  black  in  its  lines,  a  Gothic 
style,  that  is,  imposing,  and  wreathed  with  gro- 
tesque and  vivid  ornamentation.  The  atmosphere 
is  saturated  with  horror,  much  as  in  the  murder 
scenes   of  Maeterlinck's  La  Princesse  Maleine — 

only,   Crommelynck's  horror  grips,   while   Maeter- 

286 


Flemish  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

linck's  (in  the  play  in  question)  never  quite  gets 
away  from  the  melodramatic.  Crommelynck's 
dramas  have  the  great  virtue  of  conciseness :  there 
is  not  a  word  too  much,  and  every  word  tells. 

In  Belgium  itself  there  is  a  consensus  of 
opinion  that  the  most  important  Belgian  dramatist 
is  Gustave  van  Zype.  His  dramas,  as  pessimistic 
and  realistic  as  those  of  Ibsen,  deal  with  social 
problems ;  they  betray  a  rather  conservative  bias. 
Van  Zype  is  a  conscientious  and  interesting  writer, 
although  (let  us  say  the  worst)  he  is  a  trifle  stodgy. 
His  most  important  dramas  are  :  Le  Patrimoine, 
Tes  Pere-et-Mere,  La  Souveraine,  Les  J^ tapes,  Le 
Gouffre,  Les  Liens.  The  last  play  created  a  sen- 
sation when  it  was  produced  at  Brussels  in  19 12. 
The  problem  is  the  heredity  of  disease.  Grandal 
is  a  scholar  whose  father  and  grandfather  were 
drunkards  and  maniacs.  He  himself  has  hitherto 
escaped  without  scathe,  but  after  an  honourable 
life  of  labour,  and  while  he  is  still  absorbed  in 
studies  which  will  benefit  mankind,  he  feels  the 
beginnings  of  mental  disease.  At  this  stage  his 
son  falls  in  love  with  a  girl  who  is  herself  neurotic 

and  the  last  of  her  race.     The   old  scholar  tries 

287 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

to  prevent  the  marriage,  but  his  wife,  determined 
that  her  son  shall  not  be  robbed  of  his  happiness, 
persuades  Grandal  that  he  is  not  the  father  of  her 
son.  This  is  more  than  his  reason  can  bear.  The 
drama  is  not  unfit  to  be  ranked  with  Strindberg's 
The  Father.  Van  Zype's  stories  are  preoccupied 
with  the  same  social  problems  as  his  dramas.  La 
Revelation,  for  instance,  is  an  anti-Malthusian 
novel.  A  young  married  couple  agree  to  have 
no  children,  but  after  a  few  years  there  is  an 
accident,  and  the  baby  is  the  revelation  —  of 
happiness. 

The  popular  success  which  has  been  persist- 
ently denied  to  Van  Zype's  terribly  earnest  dramas 
was  achieved  by  Paul  Spaak's  Kaatje.  On  its 
first  production  it  ran  for  fifty  nights — a  stupendous 
run  in  Belgium  (Van  Zype's  Les  Liens  lasted 
fifteen  nights,  and  that  was  considered  a  gratifying 
success).  Spaak's  other  dramas  are  A  Damme  en 
Flandre  ;  Baldus  et  Josina  ;  Camille. 


288 


CHAPTER   XI 
WALLOON  NOVELISTS  AND  DRAMATISTS 

How  unsatisfactory  the  term  "  Belgian "  is  when 
applied  to  literature  is  seen  at  once  when  one  com- 
pares the  Flemish  novelists  with  their  fellow-crafts- 
men in  the  Walloon  districts.  In  characterising 
the  Flemish  novelist,  it  is  not  the  substance  of  the 
story,  nor  the  handling  of  the  plot,  nor  the  psych- 
ology that  needs  weighing,  it  is  the  quality  of  the 
painting.  This  is  not  the  case  with  the  Walloon 
novelists  (or  rather  conteurs,  for  the  short  story  is 
the  rule,  and  the  novels  are  usually  short  stories 
lengthened).  With  them,  it  is  the  sentiment  and 
the  idea  which  must  be  considered.  "  Sentiment " 
is  the  correct  word;  "emotion"  might  mean  too 
much,  and  "feeling"  would  be  too  strong  a  term. 
There  is  plenty  of  feeling  in  the  Flemish  novelists  : 
tender  feeling  in  Lemonnier,  Demolder,  and  Virres, 
fierce  feeling  in   Eekhoud  and  Horace  van  Offel. 

The  Walloon  writers  are  too  refined  and  cerebral 

289  T 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

for  feeling  in  this  extreme  sense :  if  they  have 
feeling,  it  is  a  gentle  emotion,  and  they  play  with 
it,  analyse  it,  consider  it  in  the  light  of  memory, 
mock  at  it  with  gentle  irony.  And  they  never  lose 
sight  of  the  idea,  which  is  the  base  of  the  work. 
Their  symbolism  rolls  itself  round  an  idea  and 
invites  interpretation,  whereas  Flemish  symbolism 
veils  a  mystery  from  profane  eyes.  But  the  Wal- 
loons do  not  follow  up  a  series  of  ideas  till  they 
form  a  logical  chain,  a  philosophical  entity.  There 
is  nothing  in  any  Walloon  tale-writer  like  the  con- 
ception of  life  which  Lemonnier's  warmth  of  feeling 
engendered.  The  ideas  which  preoccupy  the 
Walloon  writers  are  detached  and  evanescent. 
But  the  ideas  are  there,  in  each  separate  tale, 
bright  and  glancing.  Louis  Delattre,  in  his  fasci- 
nating Le  Pays  Wallon,  has  illuminated  the  Wal- 
loon character  by  a  fine  image.  At  the  end  of 
every  Walloon  village,  he  says,  there  is  a  quarry, 
and  to  his  mind  the  stone-cutters  typify  the  quali- 
ties of  his  race,  their  pleasure  in  bringing  hidden 
things  to  the  light  of  day,  in  striking  the  white 
light  of  the  idea  from  the  hard  stone. 

Louis  Delattre,  perhaps  the  most  soberly  bril- 
290 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

liant  of  the  Walloon  conteurSy  began,  in  the  very 
days  when  the  pretentious  prose  of  the  symbolists 
was  the  fashion,  with  recollections  of  childhood 
narrated  in  a  perfectly  simple  style.  These  tales 
are  somewhat  intangible,  but  marked  by  a  subtle 
and  delicate  charm.  His  later  work,  La  Lot  de 
Pechdy  Le  Parfum  des  Buis,  is  more  poignant. 
Georges  Rency  has  sketched  Delattre's  evolution  : 

"A  chalky  road  in  Entre-Sambre-et-Meuse,  an  or- 
chard in  blossom,  a  cottage  on  a  hill,  children  playing 
at  marbles  in  the  Church  porch,  an  old  woman  smiling 
at  the  westering  sun.  ...  A  whole  host  of  images,  with 
exquisite  godsends  of  feeling,  this  is  Delattre  in  his 
Conies  de  mon  Village,  Les  Miroirs  de  Jeunesse^  Une  Rose 
a  la  Bouche.  The  tales  of  these  three  collections  are  born 
of  the  sap  of  instinct.  The  form  may  be  somewhat 
hazy,  but  there  is  no  trace  in  them  of  effort.  Every- 
thing gushes  forth  from  its  source  in  the  very  life  of 
the  writer.  He  draws  with  full  hands  from  his  heart, 
which  is  overflowing  with  emotion  and  fragrance  and 
delicate  memories :  and  it  is  as  though  he  had  plunged 
his  hands  into  a  wicker  basket  full  of  green  vegetables 
and  field  flowers  and  ripe  fruit.  The  confident  optimism 
of  these  first  stories  is  in  some  sort  unconscious,  in- 
voluntary. You  would  say  that  Delattre,  when  he  wrote 
them,  had  no  knowledge  of  pain  and  wretchedness.  He 
is  happy  and  he  thinks  that  everybody  is  happy.  His 
conception  of  the  world  is  like  that  of  a  child  at  play, 

291 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

who  imagines  that  playing  is  the  great  affair  in  Hfe. 
But  the  years  pass.  A  crisis  comes  in  this  existence, 
a  moral  crisis  concerning  which  we  shall  never  know 
anything,  for  Delattre  is  one  of  those  authors  who  fight 
shy  of  personal  confession.  For  some  years  there  is 
silence,  complete  silence  :  it  seems  as  though  the  writer 
were  exhausted.  Suddenly  he  reappears,  begins  to  pub- 
lish again.  In  a  few  years  he  issues  fifteen  volumes, 
about  two  a  year.  ,  .  .  Now,  you  feel,  Delattre  knows 
pain  and  wretchedness ;  but  he  has  weighed  tears  and 
smiles,  and  it  is  the  latter  which  are  heavier  in  the  scales. 
Yes,  suffering  there  is  in  existence,  great  suffering,  but, 
when  all  is  said  and  done,  life  is  better  than  non-exist- 
ence, and  suffering,  however  acute,  is  preferable  to  stag- 
nation and  weariness."  ^ 


Delattre  is  never  exciting.  Adventure  would 
seem  trivial  to  this  intelligent  writer,  who  is  an 
interpreter  of  life,  a  poet  of  the  heart,  not  a  spinner 
of  yarns.  The  substance  of  La  Loi  de  Pecke^ 
which  is  a  whole  novel,  not  a  tale,  is  merely  this : 
two  cousins  love  each  other,  but  the  boy  is  timid, 
and  the  girl  is  won  by  another  man,  whereupon 
the  boy  returns  to  his  native  village  to  live  on  his 
memories.  One  of  the  stories  of  Le  Parfum  des 
Buis  is  typical  of  that  love  of  the  bizarre  which 

*  Lm  Vie  Intellectuelley  Jan.  191 2. 
292 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

sometimes  leads  Walloon  writers  astray :  a  bull 
has  killed  the  only  son  of  a  farmer,  his  mother 
goes  out  of  her  mind,  and  her  madness  takes  a 
curious  form :  she  has  the  beast  led  before  her 
every  day,  so  that  she  can  take  hold  of  its  head 
and  embrace  it.  This  is  not  ridiculous  in  Delattre's 
tale. 

Georges  Garnir  situated  the  scene  of  his  first 
stories  (Contes  d  Marjolaine,  Les  Charneux,  La 
Ferme  aux  Grives)  in  the  Ardennes,  round  about 
Liege.  These  tales  have  the  sentimentality  and 
the  simple  charm  of  Delattre's  early  work.  Later, 
Garnir  settled  in  Brussels,  and  wrote  tales  (A  la 
Boule  Plate,  Le  Conservateur  de  la  Tour  Noire) 
in  which  he  encroached  on  Leopold  Courouble's 
province,  and  caricatured  the  Philistines  of  the 
capital. 

Hubert  Krains  began  with  fantastic  tales  of 
horror  {Histoires  Lunatiques ;  Les  Bons  Parents)^ 
which  read  as  though  his  ambition  was  to  be  the 
Belgian  E.  T.  A.  Hoffmann.  In  **  Croquis  Noc- 
turne," for  instance,  he  describes  a  village  hemmed 
in  with  poplars  in  a  hot  night  in  August,  an  owl 

peering  from  a   barn,   insects  flitting   against   the 

293 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

trees,  while  a  woman  slips  out  of  a  turreted  castle 
and  glides,  frightened  by  the  rustling  of  her  black 
dress,  through  the  park.  It  is  the  unexpectedness 
of  the  ending  which  produces  the  thrill : 

"In  front  of  her  the  road,  narrower  and  narrower, 
streaks  like  a  thin  grey  ribbon  the  mass  of  shadow 
heaped  between  the  arched  branches  of  two  parallel 
hedges.  With  one  hand  she  nervously  presses  her 
breast  as  if  to  calm  the  palpitations  of  her  heart,  and 
her  eyes,  uneasy  and  feverish,  search  the  darkness  where 
vague  things  seem  to  wave  silently  to  and  fro. 

"  By  and  bye  she  can  make  out,  on  the  right,  emerging 
from  the  thistles  and  brambles  that  choke  the  ditch,  a 
shapeless  stone  cross. 

"  Instinctively,  the  woman  rushes  forward :  her  feet 
do  not  seem  to  touch  the  earth,  her  body  sways  stiffly 
like  a  ghost,  and  her  eyes,  haggard  and  staring,  express 
a  suffering  more  than  human.  Heavily  she  sinks  down 
into  the  brambles,  which  tear  her  dress  but  give  way, 
and,  with  her  breasts  crushed  against  the  cold  stone  of 
the  cross,  on  which  the  moss  has  hung  its  silky  fringes, 
with  writhing  arms,  with  a  frame  shaken  by  the  agony 
of  an  infinite  sorrow,  with  her  head  stretched  upwards  to 
the  impassible  stars,  she  calls  desperately  for  the  lover 
who  for  her  sake  has  been  slain." 

Krains  is  often  most  successful  in  creating  an 

atmosphere  of  supreme  horror,  as  in  the  story  of 

294 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

the  old  beggar  who  smashes  a  statue  of  Christ 
and  finds  money  hidden  inside  it,  only  to  go  mad 
with  remorse.  His  more  mature  work  (Amours 
Rustiques,  Le  Pain  Noir)  is  marked  by  a  minute 
naturalism  and  a  harrowing  pessimism.  He  ex- 
tracts the  maximum  of  suffering  from  his  subject. 
"  Not  content  with  observing  in  order  to  under- 
stand," says  Maurice  Gauchez,  "he  dissects  in 
order  to  explain."  He  would  be  the  most  cruel 
and  corrosive  of  Belgian  authors  if  he  did  not 
identify  himself  with  the  sufferings  of  his  char- 
acters, mostly  broken-down  people  who  are  sick 
to  death  with  despair ;  but  he  is  not  a  realist 
standing  outside  the  world  he  creates — he  is  in 
it,  heart  and  soul ;  and  his  tenderness  for  his 
creatures,  his  all-embracing  charity,  lift  him  above 
sordidness. 

Maurice  des  Ombiaux  is  the  most  prolific  as 
he  is  the  gayest  of  the  Walloon  writers.  He 
would  be  flattered  if  he  were  called  the  most 
Walloon  of  the  Walloons ;  for  he  is  the  apostle 
of  the  Walloon  country,  in  which  he  has  situated 
practically  all   his  work.     "  The    King   of  Entre- 

Sambre-et-Meuse "  someone  has  called  him.     Le- 

295 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

monnier  could   not  endure   the  idea  of  being   "a 
cow  grazing  its  patch  of  grass  round  its  stake." 
This  is  just  what  des    Ombiaux  takes  a  pride  in 
being.     He  is  the  r^gionaliste  a  outrance.     "  You 
cannot  hope  to  be  a   Lamartine,"  he  says  to  the 
young  Belgian  writers,  who  in  recent  years  have 
broken    away    from    the   tradition    of   the    milieu^ 
•'you  can  only  be  a  Belgian  Lamartine."     Of  set 
purpose  he    has   concentrated    his   studies   on  the 
history,  the  architecture,  the  folklore,  the  scenery 
of  his   native    Hainault,    and   he   has   poured   his 
specialised  knowledge  (sometimes  with  monotonous 
insistence)  into  the  mould  of  his  tales.     But  what- 
ever mistakes  his  doctrine  may  have  led  him  into, 
no   one   could   deny  the    immense    variety   of  his 
books :  Contes  dentre  Sambre  et  Meuse,  Mes  Ton- 
nelleSt  THes  de  Houille,  Mihien  cPAvene,  Le  Joyau 
de  la  Mitre^  La  Maison  d'Or,  Nos  Rusires,  Guidon 
d' Anderlecht,  Le  Maugrd,  Contes  d! Avant  r Amour ^ 
Les  Mane  he  s  de  Lustrine,  Petit  Traits  de  Havane, 
etc.    Some  of  his  work  is  pronouncedly  Rabelaisian, 
but  is  too  good-natured  to  be  offensive.     He  has 
the  faculty  of  combining  comedy  with  tragedy  ;  as 

in  Mihien  d'Avene,  the  story  of  an  idiot  who  falls 

296 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

in  love  and  murders  his  rival.  Le  Maugre  is 
perhaps  the  novel  in  which  he  has  gone  farthest 
astray.  It  is  all  a  study  of  local  custom.  It 
would  appear  that  in  the  district  in  question  the 
farmers  deny  their  landlord  the  right  of  increasing 
their  rent,  and  still  more  that  of  evicting  them. 
If  a  landlord  tries  to  exercise  his  legal  rights, 
he  can  find  no  tenant  in  the  locality  to  replace 
the  farmer  he  has  evicted ;  and  if  he  imports  one 
from  another  district,  the  immigrant's  cattle  are 
maimed,  and  he  and  his  family  are  murdered. 
The  conditions  are  obviously  similar  to  those  which 
obtained  in  Ireland  not  long  ago.  Des  Ombiaux 
had  a  plenitude  of  excellent  material  to  work  in ; 
but  his  obsession  of  elucidating  local  custom  leads 
him  into  the  error  of  tracing  this  particular  tra- 
dition to  the  Middle  Ages.  The  movement  of  the 
story  is  excellent :  we  are  hurried  from  event  to 
event.  The  characterisation  is  good :  here  are 
Walloon  peasants,  good  and  bad,  as  they  live  and 
breathe.  And  yet — it  is  a  monotonous  book,  and 
it  disproves  the  whole  theory  of  excessive  region- 
alism.    It   proves   that   an   inventory   of  customs, 

however  accelerated  by  action,  does   not  make  a 

297 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

novel.  But,  in  justice  to  des  Ombiaux,  it  must 
be  pointed  out  that  Le  Maugrd  is  rather  an  ex- 
periment in  the  direction  of  unrelieved  tragedy, 
whereas  the  real  des  Ombiaux  is  a  jolly  writer 
who  is  scarcely  tinged  with  the  prevailing  melan- 
choly of  the  Walloon  writers.  There  is  another 
thing  in  which  he  differs  from  the  rest  of  his 
Walloon  compeers  :  he  is  a  colourist.  For  instance, 
he  strings  a  series  of  pictures  together  in  Demol- 
der's  manner  in  Guidon  (T Anderlecht^  an  essay  in 
profane  hagiography  (the  novel  cheerily  proposes 
to  relate  the  career  of  St.  Guidon,  one  of  the  most 
popular  saints  of  Brabant,  and  the  very  date  leaps 
forward  four  hundred  years).  But — a  vital  point 
— this  rather  careless  writer  (for  at  his  best  he  is 
a  teeming  improviser)  splashes  the  colours  about 
in  a  way  that  Demolder  would  never  dream  of 
doing ;  he  makes  us  see  the  colours,  not  the 
picture.  Describing  the  fair  at  Ypres,  for  instance, 
he  says : 

"  In  the  streets  and  the  alleys  the  crowd  swarmed 
and  swirled  red,  green,  orange,  white,  violet,  purple,  with 
blue  shadows,  while  afar  the  blonde  verdure  of  Flanders 
laughed   in   the   flat  fields,   under  an   indigo   sky  graced 

298 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

with   big   white   clouds   as    round    as    balls,    like    snowy 
mountains." 

Anyone  who  has  seen  Le  Mariage  de  Made- 
moiselle Beulemans  knows  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  Belgian  humour.  But  it  is  very,  very  rare. 
Belgian  authors  take  themselves  so  seriously.  .  .  . 
According  to  Eugene  Gilbert,  it  was  Leopold 
Courouble  who  discovered  Belgian  humour ;  and 
Courouble  is  certainly  the  accredited  Belgian 
humorist.  The  book  which  first  showed  the 
Belgians  that  a  national  humour  was  possible  is 
La  Famille  Kaekebroeck.  Courouble  makes  his 
good  burghers  of  Brussels  speak  that  dialect  of 
the  French  language  which  is  known  as  "  le  parler 
beige."  Other  books  of  his  are:  Mes  Pandectes ; 
Profils  B lanes  et  Frimousses  Noires ;  Images 
dOutremer;  Pauline  Platbrod;  Les  Noces  d'Or\ 
Le  Mariage  d'Hermance.  In  La  Maison  Espag- 
nole,  with  its  pictures  of  old  Brussels  life,  he  has 
given  us  his  autobiography. 

Fernand    Wicheler   and    Franz    Fonson  would 

hardly   have    written    their    famous    comedy,    Le 

Mariage  de  Mademoiselle  Beulemans,  if  La  Famille 

Kaekebroeck  had  not  showed  them  the  way.     Their 

299 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

comedy  is  notoriously  the  most  successful,  financi- 
ally, of  all  Belgian  plays,  and  its  characters  have 
become  proverbial,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  any 
of  the  plays  of  these  authors  belong  to  literature. 

Henri  Maubel  in  his  tales  (Dans  I' fie,  Ames  de 
Couleur)  and  plays  {J^tude  de  Jeune  Fille,  Les 
RacineSy  L'Eau  et  le  Vin)  studies  the  soul  of  girls 
on  the  verge  of  womanhood.  He  is  a  philosophic 
writer  of  the  greatest  refinement.  He  works 
somewhat  by  Maeterlinck's  gospel  of  silence :  he 
listens  to  the  manifestations  of  the  soul.  Like 
his  own  Abbd  Jacquelin  he  seeks  "  to  bring 
our  own  mystery  home  to  us."  Dreams  may 
reveal  it : 

"  Dream,"  he  says,  "  reality  .  .  .  these  are  words  ; 
the  dream  is  real,  or  else  we  should  have  to  deny  the 
brain  where  it  is  born.  Dream  is  the  light  of  the  flames 
that  consume  us.  It  is  the  blossoming  of  our  desires 
when  they  have  been  purified  in  the  spirit,  and  it  only 
appears  so  strange  and  is  only  so  powerful  because  it 
reflects  desires  that  the  body  does  not  seize." 

Henri    Maubel    is    the    husband    of    Blanche 

Rousseau,    who   has  also    in    her    dream-pictures 

analysed  the  soul  of  young  girls.     Her  volume  of 

300 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

short  stories,  Le  Rabaga,  is  one  of  the  most  notable 

books  of  recent  years.     An  analysis  of  one  of  her 

tales,  "Grande    Mademoiselle    Fanny,"  will   show 

how  cunningly  she   uses   the   atmosphere  of  fairy 

tales  to   reveal   feminine   character.      Angele   and 

Phlip  are   two   little   ragamuffins.      Angele  has  a 

doll  whose  name  is  Grande  Mademoiselle  Fanny. 

"  Shall   we   get   married    soon  ? "    Phlip   asks    one 

day.     "  I  am  quite  willing,  if  big  Miss  Fanny  will 

agree,"    Angele   replies.      They   go   to   ask    Miss 

Fanny,  but  no  answer  can  be  got  from  the  doll. 

**  She  says  you  mustn't  kiss  me  any  more,"  Angde 

interprets  the  doll's  silence.     "  She   says  we  must 

wait.     She   says   we   can   get   married   when   you 

bring   me  a    money-box   with    some    money   in." 

Phlip,  nothing  daunted,  hires  himself  to  a  farmer, 

and  tends  sheep  for  a  long,  long  time,  till  he  has 

the   money.      He   takes   what   he   has   earned   to 

Angele,  and  she  puts  the  money  in  Miss  Fanny's 

pocket.      "When   shall    we    get    married.-*"    asks 

Phlip.      "Didn't    I    tell   you?"    answers   the  little 

girl,   "she  wants  a  red  petticoat.     She  wants  the 

red  petticoat  in    Denis's   shop-window.     Be  quick 

and  go  and  buy  it!"     "How  can  I,"  asks  Phlip, 

301 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

**  when  I  haven't  got  my  money  ? "     "She  says  she 

must   have    it,"    insists    Angele.      Phlip   steals   it, 

and    is    put    in    prison.      But    all    the    time    he 

thinks  that   Angele  is  waiting   for   him,  and   that 

when  he  gets   back   home   they  will   be   married. 

When  he  is  released,  he  walks  a  day  and  a  night, 

and  a  day  again.     And  he  arrives  at  the  village. 

It  is  an  evening  in    May.     He   hides   himself  till 

the  moon  comes  out.     Then  he  goes  to  the  farm 

and  throws  a  handful  of  sand  at  the  attic  window. 

Angde  opens  the  window,  and  talks  to  him.     She 

is  sorry  he  has  had  to  eat  dry  bread.     As  for  her, 

she  has   had   roast   goose   with  chestnuts,  and  fig 

jam.  .  .  .  She  knows  what  he  has  come  for,  but, 

she  tells  him,  Miss  Fanny  has  had  another  idea.  .  .  . 

now  she  wants  the  Blue  Bird.     Phlip  sets  out  to 

find  it,  crosses  the  ocean,  and  goes  to  where  the 

niggers  and  the  Chinese  live.     As  the  years  pass, 

Angele  sits  at  her  window,  and  sometimes  at  night 

she   makes   a   sign    to    someone    passing    in    the 

shadow.     Then  a  step   is   heard    on    the  staircase 

and  some  soldier  or  other  pushes  her  door  open. 

He   brings   cakes    and    wine.       But    one   evening 

somebody   came   to   the   door   when   she  was  not 

302 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

expecting  anyone.  He  knocked  twice.  Angela 
opened  the  door  .  .  .  and  there  stood  Phlip.  He 
had  grown  very  tall,  and  he  was  sunburnt.  He 
was  dressed  as  a  sailor,  and  a  bird  was  perched 
on  his  fist.  He  did  not  wait  for  her  to  invite  him 
to  come  in.  "Here  I  am,"  he  said,  "and  here's 
the  bird."  Angele  saw  that  it  was  the  Blue  Bird. 
He  tells  her  his  experiences  in  strange  lands,  and 
leaves  her,  saying  he  will  come  back  the  day  after 
and  then  they  can  get  married.  The  morning 
after  he  returns  to  the  room,  and  finds  her  waiting 
in  her  wedding  dress.  She  has  been  stitching  all 
night.  On  her  head  she  has  a  straw  hat.  And 
on  the  straw  hat  something  blue  is  stirring.  It  is 
the  Blue  Bird,  stitched  alive  on  to  the  straw  hat. 
Its  wing  is  still  beating  a  little.  .  .  . 

Charles  Delchevalerie  is  one  of  the  few  sur- 
vivors yet  writing  of  the  group  who  wrote  for  La 
Wallonie  and  Flor^al.  Journalism  has  left  him 
little  time  for  literature,  but  the  "landscape 
studies"  of  his  Decors  (1895),  his  short  story 
La  Maison  des  Roses  Tremieres  (1898),  and  Images 
Fraternelles  (1914),  a  collection  of  vivid  impres- 
sions  splendidly   illustrated    by  Auguste    Donnay, 

303 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

keep  his  name  before  the  public.  As  a  descriptive 
writer,  Delchevalerie  is  in  the  front  rank.  One  of 
his  fellow-workers  in  the  days  of  La  Wallonie 
was  C^lestin  Demblon,  who  wrote  Contes  Melan^ 
coliques  and  Nouveaux  Contes  MelancoHques. 
Since  then  he  has  devoted  himself  (like  Georges 
Eekhoud)  to  Shakespearean  criticism,  and  (like 
Maeterlinck)  he  has  translated  Macbeth. 

Not  all  the  Walloon  writers  are  regionalists  or 
philosophers.  The  best  are,  decidedly.  But  there 
is  a  sprinkling  of  romanticists — not  new-romanti- 
cists, in  the  Viennese  sense,  but  romanticists  of 
the  good  old  school  of  Victor  Hugo.  There  are, 
then,  historical  novels  in  Belgian  literature.  The 
most  famous  is  La  Cite  Ardente,  in  which  Henry 
Carton  de  Wiart,  the  present  Minister  of  Justice, 
unrolls  the  epic  of  the  city  of  Li^ge.  Opinions 
differ  as  to  the  merit  of  the  book,  as  of  Les 
Vertus  Bourgeoises^  another  historical  novel  of 
Carton  de  Wiart's ;  but  it  is  at  all  events  certain 
that  the  noblest  of  Belgian  cities  deserves  a 
greater  epic  than  Henry  Carton  de  Wiart  can 
write,  although  he  got  the  quinquennial  prize  for 

his  production. 

304 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

Another  Belgian  writer  who  owes  much  of  his 
success    to   official  influence    is    Henri   Davignon, 
whose  father  is  the  present   Minister  for  Foreign 
Affairs.     His   drama  La  Querelle   was  played   in 
1 9 14  in  the  presence  of  the  King  and  the  Queen 
and    six   Cabinet    Ministers   (a    record    for    "  the 
Belgian  theatre  ").      The  play  is  also  remarkable 
linguistically,  as  Leopold  Rosy  pointed  out  in  Le 
Thyrse,  for  (in  the  interests  of  local  colour — it  is, 
specifically,  a  "  Belgian  "  play)  it  is  written  in  three 
languages  —  French,    Walloon,     and    Beulemans. 
Henri   Davignon  is  nothing  if  not  patriotic.     He 
would    reconcile    the   two    warring    races    of    his 
country,    he   would    fuse    Fleming    and    Walloon. 
How   it    can    be    done    he    shows    in    his    much- 
discussed   novel    Un   Beige   (191 3):    let   orthodox 
Flanders  save  the  soul  of  free-thinking  Wallonia, 
and  all  will  be  well.     The  two  races  must  inter- 
marry, but  there  must  be  an  end  of  all  this  Walloon 
cynicism.     This  tendencious   spirit   guides  the  in- 
trigue of  Davignon's  other  novels  {L'Ardennaise, 
Le  Prix  de  la  Vie,  Le  Courage  d Aimer  are  read- 
able) ;  and  this  young  aristocrat  (personally  very 

charming,   by   all  accounts)   takes    care    that    the 

305  u 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Whig  dogs  and  especially  the  blear-eyed  socialists 
get  the  worst  of  it.  He  has  a  sense  of  landscape ; 
and  anyone  wishing  to  visit  the  Ardennes  might 
find  suggestions  in  his  novels  for  a  profitable 
itinerary. 

Belgium  lost,  in  191 2,  a  promising  writer  in 
Francois  Charles  Morisseaux.  He  resigned  a  com- 
mission in  the  army  to  devote  himself  to  literature, 
was  director  of  the  excellent  Brussels  review  Le 
Thyrse  from  1905  to  1908,  he  wrote  numerous 
novels,  tales,  and  plays,  and  he  was  barely  thirty 
when  he  died.  As  a  member,  for  some  time,  of 
the  staff  of  L'^toile  Beige,  he  rejuvenated  that 
family  journal's  literary  columns.  His  plays,  for 
all  the  lively  wit  he  expended  in  them,  are  hardly 
likely  to  survive ;  his  novels  A  Travers  le  Vitrail, 
La  Blessure  et  c  Amour,  Histoire  Remarquable 
dAnselme  Ledotix,  and  his  volume  of  short  stories 
Bobine  et  Casintir  are  saved  by  their  delicate  irony. 

Paul  Andr^  is,  like  Henri  Davignon,  an  author 

who  treats  modern  problems  with  an  orthodox  bias. 

In  Delphine   Fousseret   he  hit  upon  an  idea — the 

love-sick  woman  of  forty — which  has  been  more 

successfully  handled  by    Karin    Michaelis.     It  is, 

306 


I 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

however,  rather  as  a  regionalist  writer,  a  devotee 
of  the  Walloon  country,  that  he  has  achieved 
distinction  (^Le  Prestige,  L' Impossible  Liberie). 
His  Chers  Petits  Anges  are  studies  of  children  ; 
his  Contes  de  la  Botte  turn  his  recollections  of 
the  army  to  account. 

A  sound  critic  of  other  men's  work,  a  great 
quarreller  who  never  shows  temper,  even  when  the 
hosts  of  the  mighty  move  up  against  him  (as  when 
recently  he  had  the  temerity  to  defend  Maeterlinck 
against  the  slashing  onslaught  of  Louis  Dumont- 
Wilden),  Georges  Rency  has  written  admirable 
novels  and  tales  (^Madeleine,  L'A'ieule,  Contes  de 
la  Hulotte,  Frissons  de  Vie).  Franz  Mahutte,  one 
of  the  old  guard  of  La  Jeune  Belgique,  is  caustic 
and  sometimes  sordid  in  his  stories  Gens  de  Pro- 
vince, Sans  Horizon,  Feuilles  au  Vent.  Hubert 
Stiernet  is  known  for  his  Histoires  Hantees,  and 
Haute  Plaine. 

To   return    to  the  historical  novel,   there  is  a 

Belgian  Pierre  Louys.     Count  Albert  du  Bois  has 

produced   something  akin  to   the   French  writer's 

Aphrodite   in    his   novels    of    ancient   Greek    life 

Amours  Antiques  (the  second  edition  was  rebap- 

307 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

tized    L' Ath^nienne)    and    Leuconoe.      These    are 

novels  for  adults.     The   count  is  a   rich  amateur 

who   allows  himself  the  luxury  of  writing,  beside 

his    astonishing    novels,    plays    in     Alexandrines, 

something   like    Racine's.       If    the    Count   is    the 

Belgian  Pierre   Louys,  Maurice  de  Waleffe  must, 

by  virtue  of  his  ancient  Egyptian  novel  Le  Peplos 

Vert,   be   called   the    Belgian   Georg  Ebers.     To 

complete    the    trio,    Fran9ois    Leonard   (who    has 

written  verse,  plays,  and  criticism)  must  be  called 

the  Belgian  Wells :    his  Le  Triomphe  de  r Homme 

is  a  terrific  scientific  vision  of  the  future ;    in  the 

last  chapter,  the  Earth  goes  wrong,  waggles  about, 

makes  a  rush  for  Vega  .  .   .  and  bursts. 

Prosper    Henri    Devos   made   a   name   by   his 

Monna  Lisa^  a  novel  of  Bohemian  life  in  Brussels : 

two  artists  are  rivals  for  the  possession  of  a  woman. 

Devos   leads    a   campaign    against    the   regionalist 

fashion,  and  he  has  dared  to   break  a  lance  with 

Maurice  des  Ombiaux.     Auguste  Rouvez,  himself 

an  official   in   the    Ministry   of  Science   and   Art, 

has   satirised    the   bureaucracy   of  the   capital    (as 

des  Ombiaux  did  in  Les  Manckes  de  Lustrine)  in 

his  novel  Le  Capitole. 

308 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

Henri  Liebrecht  collaborated  with  Morisseaux 
in  writing  plays  (Miss  Lilt,  L' Effrenee).  Plays 
of  his  own  are :  D Autre  Moyen,  UEcole  des 
Valets,  La  Main  Gauche,  L' Impromptu  Persan, 
Gil  Bias  chez  Monseigneur.  His  drama  Enfant 
des  Flandres  is  an  adaptation  of  De  Coster's 
Legende  d  Ulenspiegel.  Liebrecht  is  greatly  in 
evidence  in  Brussels  as  a  combative  critic,  very 
busy  in  the  interests  of  "  the  Belgian  Theatre," 
with  which  his  own  interests  are  involved.  He 
has  compiled  a  Histoire  de  la  Litter ature  Beige 
dExpression  Frangaise  (Brussels,  191 3);  a  livre 
commandiy  but  useful. 

Sylvain  Bonmariage  (English  on  his  mother's 
side)  is  the  enfant  terrible  of  Belgian  literature. 
He  is  attacked  to  right  and  left,  as  an  impudent 
young  coxcomb,  as  a  farceur,  as  a  sauteur,  as  a 
prodigy.  But  Albert  Giraud  protects  him.  His 
poems  (Poemes,  1909)  cannot  be  taken  quite 
seriously,  though  they  are  prefaced  by  Albert 
Giraud,  who  describes  his  favourite  as  having 
"lips  Britannically  shaved"  and  as  "joining  the 
most  English  phlegm  to  the  most  French  petu- 
lance."    The  plays  of  this  Belgian  Alcibiades  {Le 

309 


I 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Pelican,   Tant  va  la  Cruche  tt,  I'Bau,  L' Automne) 

have  been   acted  at   Paris.       Of  his  recent  novel 

Les  Caprices  du  Maitre  a  Parisian  writer  who  is 

beyond  suspicion  of  partiaHty,   Eugene   Montfort, 

has  distinctly  said  i^Les  Marges,   February    19 14) 

that  it  is  pleasant  and  witty ;    and  the  same  may 

be  maintained  of  Bonmariage's  other  tales  (L'Eau 

qui  dort,  Les  Aventures  Merveilleuses  de  V Abb^ 

de   Lassus,   Attitudes,  Bobette  petite   Sasur  de   la 

Lune. 

A   writer  of   meagre    output    but    considerable 

talent    is    Ferdinand    Bouch^.       His    long    novel 

Les   Mourlon,    which    describes  the  tragic   rivalry 

of   two    old    farmers    for    the    love    of    a    buxom 

wench    who    turns    out    to    be    the    daughter    of 

one  of  them   (begotten    on  a  beggar-woman   in  a 

barn),  has  had   the  good  fortune  to  be  translated 

into  Flemish  by  Stijn  Streuvels,  which  gives  it  a 

a    second   (and   probably    more   robust)  life.      Les 

Mourlon  admirably  reproduces  the  life  on  a  farm 

in  Hainault,   Bouch^'s   native  province.     His  best 

work,    however,    is    contained    in    Chrysalides,    a 

collection    of   short    stories    some    of  which    are 

nothing  less  than  masterpieces. 

310 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

Beyond  all  doubt,  of  the  younger  generation 
of  Walloon  writers  it  is  Edmond  Glesener  from 
whom  the  most  is  to  be  hoped.  His  novel  Le 
Coeur  de  Franfois  Renty  is  by  some  critics  con- 
sidered to  be  the  best  which  has  appeared  in 
recent  years.  It  is  a  psychological  novel  of  great 
intensity,  describing  the  character  of  a  neurasthenic 
weakling — a  modern  type.  The  book  is  painful, 
perhaps  cruel.  In  Glesener 's  next  novels,  Mon- 
sieur Honore  and  its  sequel  Le  Citoyen  Colette, 
the  cruelty  is  lightened  by  irony.  The  two  novels 
together  (their  secondary  title  is  Chronicle  of  a 
Little  Country^  give  us  a  sorry  picture  of  Belgium, 
but  Glesener  has  obviously  a  poor  opinion  of  his 
native  country.  "  To  Belgians,"  he  says,  "  the 
finest  idea  in  the  world  was  never  worth  a  crown 
piece."  **  In  a  country  of  illiterates,"  he  says  again 
in  Le  Citoyen  Colette,  "it  is  natural  that  fools 
should  succeed."  The  protagonist  of  the  two 
novels,  Honore  Colette,  is  a  fool,  and  he  succeeds. 
He  has  good  looks,  and  he  has  the  success  of 
Maupassant's  Bel  Ami  from  the  moment  when, 
a  butcher  employed  at  the  Halles  aux  Viandes  at 

Li^ge,  he  takes  the  first  step  upwards  by  marrying 

311 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

a   rich    widow.     He    is   now  a   rentier;    and    has 
plenty  of  spare  time  for  philandering.     He  throws 
one  of  his  rivals  into   the    Meuse,  fishes  him  out 
again,  and  is  decorated  for  heroism.     Another  step. 
.  .  .   He  enters  the  City  Guard,  seduces  his  chief's 
wife,  is  invited  to  a  Court  ball.     He  continues  to 
mount,    till    he   is   elected   a    socialist   member   of 
Parliament.     Here  ends  the  first  novel,  which  took 
Glesener   seven   years   to   write.       In   Le    Citoyen 
Colette  we  witness  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  hero, 
who  ends  his  days  in   wretchedness,  deserted  by 
his  followers.     But  the  moral  effect  of  his  fall  is 
lacking — one  humbug  goes,  other  humbugs  take  his 
place.    As  ever  in  Belgium,  Glesener  would  have  us 
believe.     Evidently  the  satire  must  be  taken  with 
a  grain  of  salt.     But  it  has  its  justification,  as  any- 
one who  has  the   least  acquaintance  with  Belgian 
life  must  know.     Glesener   has   confessed    that   in 
writing    the    Colette    novels    he    always   had    Gil 
Bias  and  Le  Rouge  et  le  Noir  by  him.     Colette 
is  an  adventurer,  like  the  heroes  of  Le  Sage's  and 
Stendhal's  novels.     But  here  the  resemblance  ends. 
Colette   is   only   the   hero   in    the   sense   that   the 

novels  are  written   round   his   career.     In   himself 

312 


Walloon  Novelists  and  Dramatists 

he  is  a  mean  and  miserable  personage.  He  is 
only  interesting  as  a  type.  This,  perhaps,  according 
to  the  orthodox  criteria  of  criticism,  is  the  defect  of 
the  books.  But  Glesener  did  not  aim  at  enlisting 
his  readers'  sympathies  for  Colette.  His  idea  was 
to  criticise  Belgium,  and  this  he  does,  exhibiting 
pictures  of  each  successive  stage  of  society  as 
Colette  ascends  the  ladder,  giving  us  a  synopsis 
of  Belgian  life.  And  by  his  own  showing  all  is 
not  bad  in  his  "  little  country."  In  the  hearts  of 
simple  people  he  finds  goodness ;  in  children  he 
finds  a  charm  which  is  better  than  all  the  glitter 
of  high  life. 

If,  as  is  expected,  a  new  Belgium  arises  after 
the  war  from  the  ruins  of  the  old,  a  Belgium  which 
can  no  longer  be  charged  with  contempt  of  in- 
tellect, Glesener's  Chronicle  of  a  Little  Country 
will  perhaps  assume  the  character  of  a  historical 
record  by  which  the  new  regime  will  judge  the 
old. 


313 


CHAPTER   XII 

NOVELISTS  IN  FLEMISH 

In  Camille  Lemonnier's  Le  Vent  dans  les  Moulins 
there  is  a  character,  Piet  Baezen,  who  is  the  son 
of  a  baker  and  a  baker  himself. 

"  Every  morning,"  says  the  tale,  "  Piet  put  his  loaves 
in  the  oven  and  then  out  of  the  town  he  went,  walking 
straight  in  front  of  him,  away  by  the  tiny  farms  with 
their  green  shutters.  That  was  the  only  way  he  had 
ever  had  of  writing  his  tales  about  the  poor.  Nobody 
before  him  had  expressed  such  humble  and  brotherly 
things.  Baezen  was  the  only  person  who  never  seemed 
to  imagine  that  his  books  were  better  even  than  his 
bread.  He  wrote  his  books  just  as  he  kneaded  his 
dough,  with  the  same  silent  and  gentle  soul.  .  .  .  They 
were  so  sad  and  gentle,  these  tales  of  poor  folks,  that 
they  almost  made  you  want  to  suffer  yourself,  to  have 
your  nose  nipped  by  the  frost  while  your  two  hands 
were  as  far  down  in  your  pockets  as  they  would 
go.  .  .  . 

Piet    Baezen    can    be    no    other    than    Stijn 

Streuvels.     And  no  wonder  that  Lemonnier  made 

314 


Novelists  In  Flemish 

him    a  part  of  his   book,   for  he   had   set  himself 

the  task  of  singing  the  soul  of  Flanders,  and  the 

soul  of  Flanders  is  in  Stijn  Streuvels,     When  all 

is  said  and  done,  he  is  the  true  Fleming ;  and  all 

the    others,    whether    they    write    in    French    or 

Flemish,    cannot   entirely    get  away  from   French 

culture. 

Stijn   Streuvels's  real   name  is  Frank   Lateur, 

and   he    is   the   nephew    of  Guido   Gezelle.      His 

father,  after  marrying  Gezelle's  sister,  set   up   as 

a  baker  at  Heule,  near  Courtrai,  and  here  Frank 

was  born  in   1872.      When  he  was  about  twelve 

years  old,  the  family  removed  to  Avelghem,  where 

the   future   novelist  grew   up,    and   received   such 

schooling  as  could  be  had.     As  soon  as  his  parents 

allowed  him,   he  stopped  away  from  school.     He 

was   sent   to    Bruges  to   learn    baking,   and   when 

his  father  died  he  took  over  the  shop.     He  soon 

acquired  a  great  local  reputation  as  a  confectioner ; 

the   peasants  from   miles  round  came  to  him  for 

their  fancy  cakes.     At  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the 

morning  he  was  up  and  working ;  and  in  the  pauses 

during  the   baking  he  read  and  read,  like  David 

Livingstone  at  the  loom.     His  thirst  for  reading 

315 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

was  unquenchable ;  he  taught  himself  French, 
German,  English,  and  Russian,  and  spent  every 
available  penny  on  books.  He  is  said  to  have 
read  every  number  of  the  Reclainbibliothek.  To 
save  money  for  books,  he  never  spent  a  penny 
on  amusements,  never  crossed  the  threshold  of  a 
tavern  (something  incredible  in  a  Flemish  village !). 
From  his  eighteenth  to  his  twenty-eighth  year  he 
lived  like  a  monk. 

In  1895 — he  was  twenty-five  at  the  time — he 
began  to  contribute  short  stories  to  the  papers. 
Soon  he  was  discovered  by  Karel  van  de  Woestijne, 
who  with  Cyriel  Buysse  and  other  writers  had  just 
founded  Van  Nu  en  Straks,  a  review  which  was 
planned  to  break  new  ground.  After  some  corre- 
spondence Streuvels  met  van  de  Woestijne  in 
Ghent,  and  henceforward  he  contributed  regularly 
to  the  new  review.  His  first  book,  Lenteleven 
(The  Life  of  Spring)  was  denounced  as  obscene 
by  the  Roman  Catholic  journal  Belfort.  There 
was  no  justification  whatever  for  the  attack,  but 
the  article  was  sent  to  the  parish  priest  of 
Avelghem,    with    the   result   that    Stijn    Streuvels 

was   subjected   to   much  local  persecution.     How- 

316 


Novelists  in  Flemish 

ever,  the  Church  was  powerless  to  injure  him  in 
the  larger  world  of  literature ;  and  soon  Streuvels 
was  able  to  join  with  other  writers  in  launching 
another  review  with  modern  ideals,  Vlaanderen. 

He  continued  to  work  in  his  bakery.  He 
would  be  busy  till  noon ;  and  in  the  afternoons 
he  would  go  for  long  walks  in  the  neigh- 
bouring villages  (like  Piet  Baezen).  At  about 
five  o'clock  he  would  return,  shut  himself  up  in 
his  cell,  and  work  at  his  tales.  He  had  nothing 
to  do  with  selling  what  he  baked ;  the  shop  was 
attended  to  by  the  other  members  of  the  house- 
hold. Gradually,  in  spite  of  his  excellent  cakes, 
he  came  to  have  the  reputation  of  being  mad,  or 
what  is  worse,  a  heathen  heretic.  Here  was  a  man 
who  avoided  the  taverns,  and  went  for  walks,  with 
no  apparent  object,  every  afternoon.  And  when 
Streuvels  began  to  go  for  his  walks  in  the  night- 
time, there  could  no  longer  be  any  doubt.  ...  At 
last,  however,  he  showed  some  promise  of  recover- 
ing his  senses.  He  was  going  to  get  married. 
But  as  it  turned  out  his  marriage  provided  the 
"  coffee- wives  "  with  the  greatest  scandal  of  all — he 

came  to  church  in  a  jacket  and  a  soft  felt  hat.  .  .  . 

317 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

A  short  time  before  his  marriage  his  mother 
had  inherited  a  few  thousand  francs,  and  Stijn 
Streuvels  himself  was  now  earning  a  decent  in- 
come by  his  writing,  so  they  sold  the  shop  and 
the  goodwill,  and  Streuvels  had  a  villa  built  at 
Ingoyghem,  a  little  village  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance from  any  railway,  but  in  a  lovely  district. 
'*  His  life  here  is  very  lonely,"  says  Andr^  de 
Ridder  in  his  book  on  the  novelist.  "  He  does 
not  travel,  he  does  not  receive  callers,  he  makes 
no  friends ;  he  does  not  chat  with  anyone  in  the 
village.  All  the  families  in  the  neighbourhood 
would,  of  course,  be  only  too  glad  to  have  him 
at  their  parties  and  dinners,  but  he  declines  all 
invitations." 

Streuvels's   work   may   be   divided   into    three 

periods,  that  in  which  he  records  the  impressions 

of  his   early   youth   at   Heule,   that  for  which  his 

life  at  Avelghem  provides  the  material,  and  that 

which  centres  round   Ingoyghem.     The  scenes  of 

his   stories,  however,  are  not  localised   by  name ; 

it  is  interior  evidence  which  gives  the  indication. 

The   realism   of  the   first   and   second   periods   is 

sometimes   overshadowed   by  a  vague  pessimism; 

318 


Novelists  in  Flemish 

in  the  third  period  the  happy  conditions  of  the 
novelist's  own  rural  life  prevail.  But  everywhere 
there  is  sunshine  and  shadow ;  more  sunshine  to- 
wards the  end.  H  is  works  are  :  Lenteleven  ( 1 899)  ; 
Zomerland  ( 1 900) ;  Zonnetij  ( 1 900)  ;  Doodendans 
(1901);  Langs  de  Wegen  (1903);  Dagen  (1903); 
Minnekandel {igo/^)\  Dorpsgeheimen  (1904);  Open- 
lucht  {1905)  ;  Stille  Avonden  (1905) ;  Het  Uitzicht 
der  Dingen  (1906);  De  Vlassckaard  {i()oy).  Of 
these,  Langs  de  Wegen  and  Minnehandel  are 
novels — at  least  they  appear  to  be  so,  though  the 
author  has  not  actually  called  them  "novels."  In 
any  case,  Streuvels  (like  so  many  of  the  Walloon 
conteurs)  is  unable  to  write  anything  but  short 
stories,  and  what  appear  to  be  intended  as  novels 
are  really  collections  of  independent  impressions. 

Even  in  his  short  stories  Streuvels  ignores  the 
exigencies  of  construction.  "  De  Oogst "  (The 
Harvest),  for  instance,  one  of  the  tales  in  Zon- 
netij, is  really  a  couple  of  tales.  If  one  detaches 
the  sentimental  outlines,  the  first  part  is  the  love- 
story  of  Rik  and  Lida ;  but  when  Rik  dies  of 
sunstroke   the   tale   is   artlessly  continued   by   the 

love-story  of  Lida*s  brother  Wies,  who  had  hitherto 

319 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

been  a  subsidiary  character.     But  the   "story"  is 

nothing    to    Streuvels  —  and    this    holds    good    of 

all  his  work.     He   is   concerned    merely  with  the 

impression,  the  reproduction  of  the  mood ;  and  he 

only  makes  use  of  the  story  in  so  far  as  it  helps  to 

bring  out  the  impression.     In  "The  Harvest"  the 

purpose    is   to   describe   the    annual   migration    of 

Flemish  labourers  to  reap,  drove  by  drove,  in  the 

vast  cornfields  of  France. 

'*  De  Werkman "   (The    Labourer)  is   a   tragic 

picture  of  a  reaper's  return  from  France.     Manse 

has  been  having  a  hard  struggle  to  keep  the  house 

going  during  her  husband's  absence  in  the  reaping- 

fields.     At  last  he  returns,  with  his  pockets  full  of 

money ;   but   when   a   visit   has   been   paid  to  the 

village  tradesmen  to  pay  off  what  is  owing,  a  big 

hole  has  been  made  in  Ivo's  earnings.     If  he  can 

get  work  for  the  winter  months,  however,  all  will 

be  well.     But  Ivo  is  one  of  the  last  labourers  to 

return,  and  all  the  work  in  the  neighbourhood  has 

been  snapped  up.     There  is  nothing  for  Ivo,  and 

those  who  have   returned  with   him,  to  do  but  to 

set  out  without  a  moment's  delay  (lest  they  should 

arrive  too  late  here  also)  for  the  Walloon  country 

320 


Novelists  in  Flemish 

and  seek  work  in  the  hated  sugar  factories,  where 
men  are  herded  and  penned  like  slaves.  They 
dare  not  stay  a  single  night  with  their  wives  and 
families.  During  the  summer  months  husband 
and  wife  have  longed  to  be  together  with  their 
children ;  but  the  children  must  be  fed,  and  Manse 
has  hardly  time  to  darn  her  husband's  old  clothes 
before  he  and  his  mates  set  off  again — to  a  worse 
slavery  than  before.  This  tragedy  of  disillusion- 
ment is  so  simply  told ;  but  the  very  simplicity  of 
the  narration  (there  is  no  fine  writing  in  Stijn 
Streuvels)  heightens  the  hopeless  misery  almost 
beyond  endurance. 

Still  more  poignant  is  the  realism  of  "  Zonder 
Dak "  (Without  a  Rooftree),  the  first  story  in 
Openlucht  (The  Air  of  the  Open).  It  is  early 
morning  in  a  tiny  garden  and  a  tiny  hen-pen  ; 
Lowie,  a  Flemish  labourer,  is  spending  the 
happiest  hour  of  his  day  before  he  goes  off  to 
work  at  the  farm.  The  hens,  the  goat,  the 
rabbits  in  the  hutch,  the  garden,  the  cottage — 
all  these  are  his  own.  He  had  toiled  and  moiled 
all  his  life,  and  scraped  penny  by  penny  together 

to  realise  the  ambition  of  his  life — to  have  a  home 

321  X 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

of  his  own.  He  had  built  everything,  bit  by  bit, 
with  his  own  hands.  "  And  now,"  he  says  to  his 
wife,  "  we  can  be  happy ! "  When  Lowie,  this 
particularly  fine  morning,  has  had  a  look  round 
his  domain,  and  smoked  his  pipe,  he  sets  out  for 
the  farm ;  but  at  the  corner  of  the  alder-hedge  he 
turns  round  and  stands  looking  at  his  cottage  in 
the  open  field,  with  its  white-washed  walls  and 
thatched  roof,  and  the  top  of  the  hen-cote  and 
the  goat's  stable  peering  out  over  the  green  hedge 
under  the  pear-tree.  He  thinks  it  looks  so  pretty 
and  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  look  at  it,  and  it  is  all 
his — and  then  there  is  Wieze,  his  wife,  and  the 
four  children,  the  young  rascals.  .  .  .  And  off  he 
goes,  as  proud  as  a  king,  to  his  hard  day's  work. 
The  second  part  of  the  tale  shows  us  Wieze  dress- 
ing the  children  and  giving  them  their  breakfast — 
a  Flemish  interior.  Then  she  has  to  go  to  the 
grocer's,  and  the  children  are  left  alone  to  play. 
They  play  at  riding  in  a  coach  on  their  parents' 
bed,  and  when  they  are  tired  of  this,  they  climb 
up  to  the  attic,  though  they  have  been  forbidden 
to  go  there.     It  is  dark,  and  they  try  to  open  the 

skylight,    but    their   little    fingers    cannot    lift   the 

322 


I 


Novelists  in  Flemish 

frame.     Then    they  fetch  a  matchbox  and  one  of 

them  keeps  striking   matches   till   all   at  once  the 

thatch  is  on  fire.     The  neighbours  arrive  in  time 

to  save  the  children,  but  the  house  and  the  sheds 

are  burnt  down.     The  mother  does  not  think  of 

the    house — it    is    enough    to    have    the   children 

unharmed ;   but  the  father  will  not  be  comforted. 

Nothing    more    must    be    expected    of    Stijn 

Streuvels  than  such  simple  things  as  these — simple, 

but  deep,  told  in   the   language  of  everyday  life, 

and  yet  with  a  mastery  of  style.     In  some  of  his 

tales  (** Een  beroerde  Maandag,"  "  Het  Duivelstuig") 

he    shows  a   sense  of  humour  which  comes  as  a 

relief  after  his  prevailing  seriousness  :  it  is  a  heavy 

Flemish  humour  which  gathers  force  very  slowly, 

but    in    the    end    is    irresistible.       One    thing    in 

Streuvels  is  very  noticeable  after  reading  Eekhoud 

and   the    other    Belgian    novelists   who    write    in 

French.     The  women  of  Eekhoud,  Lemonnier,  and 

the  rest  are  almost  always  sensual  women  who  call 

a  spade  a  spade.     There  is  no  hint  of  such  things 

in    Stijn   Streuvels's  tales ;    and   it  is  evident  that 

either  the  French-writing  novelists  brutalise  their 

characters,  or  Stijn  Streuvels   idealises  his.     Pro- 

323 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

bably  the  truth  is  midway.  Streuvels  is  not  mealy- 
mouthed,  though  the  peasants  of  some  of  his  later 
tales  are  obviously  too  refined ;  his  realism  is 
genuine  and  convincing.  He  is  certainly  a  very 
original  writer.  The  influence  of  the  Russian 
realists  and  of  Bjornson  (some  of  whose  tales  he 
has  translated)  is  perhaps  discernible  here  and 
there ;  but  it  would  be  hard  to  bring  it  home. 
He  is  weakest  where  he  abandons  the  transcrip- 
tion of  things  seen  to  attempt  flights  of  imagi- 
nation :  Zomerland,  for  instance,  is  a  most  con- 
fusing blend  of  poetry  and  reality — it  is  hard  to 
know  whether  the  scene  is  in  South  Africa  or 
Flanders,  whether  the  period  is  prehistoric  or  in 
our  own  days. 

There  is  no  trace  of  the  maidenly  chastity  of 
Stijn  Streuvels  in  the  one  Flemish-writing  novelist 
whose  merit  comes  near  equalling  his.  This  is 
Cyriel  Buysse,  a  writer  whom  Maeterlinck,  ever 
lavish  of  praise,  has  compared  to  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant. Buysse  is  the  nephew  of  Rosalie  and 
Virginie  Loveling,  two  sisters  whose  Flemish- 
written    tales    and    poems   are    still   widely   read. 

He    was    born    in   a  village  near  Ghent  in    1859, 

324 


Novelists  in  Flemish 

and  he  was  brought  up  to  succeed  his  father,  who 

was  a  manufacturer.     In   his  twenty-fifth  year  he 

went  to  America  in  the  interests  of  his  firm ;  and 

it  was  during  the  return  voyage,  two  years  after, 

that  he  determined  to  turn  his  back  on  commerce, 

for  which  he  felt  no  aptitude,  and  devote  himself 

to   literature.     He  began   at    once  to  write  tales, 

which    in    due   course    were    published.     His   first 

novel,  Het  Recht  van  den  Sterkste  (1893)  revealed 

him  as  an  uncompromising  realist  of  great  power. 

The  Right  of  the  Strongest  would  have  made 

Zola  blush.    It  is  filthy.    But  the  intention  is  clean  : 

Cyriel  Buysse  is  an  austere  and  noble  artist,  and  if 

he  chooses  to   regard  sexual  passion   as  the  most 

destructive  factor  in  life,  he   must  be  allowed  the 

liberty  of  his  opinion,  so  long  as  he  cannot  honestly 

be  accused  of  pornography.     The  worst  of  Buysse 

is  not  his  filth,  but  his  lack  of  humour.     "  Buysse 

cannot  smile,"  says  a  Dutch  critic.     And  yet  some 

of  the    scenes    in     The    Right    of  the    Strongest^ 

the   brawls   in   the    streets   of  the   vile    slum,    for 

instance,   are  apt  to  raise   a  laugh    by    the  grim- 

visaged  sternness  of  their  narration.     They  remind 

one  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  The  Police  Gazette. 

325 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

The  purpose  of  the  novel  is  sufficiently  indicated 
by  its  title.  Buysse  thinks  that  physical  strength 
is  what  shapes  the  life  of  the  poor.  To  every 
woman  man  is  the  superman.  In  a  strange  scene 
where  a  number  of  women  are  weeding  a  field, 
each  one  in  turn  tells,  without  a  vestige  of  shame, 
the  story  of  her  seduction.  "  All  had  been  over- 
come by  force,  deceit,  or  surprise ;  and  what  they 
recollected  of  it  was  not  grief  for  the  loss  of  their 
honour,  still  less  disgust  at  the  brutality  of  the  plot, 
but  rather  an  impression  of  having  been  fooled, 
combined  with  an  unconscious  feeling  of  respect 
for  the  man's  strength,  a  feeling  of  necessary  sub- 
jection to  the  right  of  the  strongest."  Rape, 
robbery,  drink,  fights,  poaching,  prison ;  harridans 
slanging  one  another  at  the  doors  of  their  filthy 
hovels ;  harlotry  and  incest — is  it  indeed  a  true 
picture  of  life,  or  is  it  the  phantasmagoria  of  a 
too  heated  imagination  ? 

Schoppenboer  (The  Knave  of  Spades)  is  not 
less  violent,  though  another  passion,  avarice,  is 
brought  into  play.  Old  farmer  Joncke,  whose  farm 
has  been  burnt  down,  implores  his   three  sons  on 

his   deathbed  not  to   marry,  but   to   live   together 

326 


Novelists  in  Flemish 

and  build  up  the  prosperity  of  the  farm  again. 
(The  outlines  of  the  novel  have  some  likeness 
to  Ferdinand  Bouch^'s  Les  Mourlon).  The  three 
brothers  carry  out  the  old  man's  wishes.  But  Pol 
Moeykens,  the  orphaned  son  of  their  sister,  comes 
to  live  at  the  farm.  The  brothers  hate  the  lad, 
but  they  cannot  refuse  to  have  him  live  with  them, 
for  they  fear  he  might  claim  his  mother's  part  in 
the  common  heritage.  In  course  of  time  one  of 
the  brothers,  Jan,  discovers  that  Pol  has  relations 
with  the  servant,  his  own  mistress.  Jan  broods 
vengeance,  and  when  Pol  gets  married  and  brings 
his  bride  to  live  at  the  farm  he  lays  his  plans  to 
seduce  her.  He  is  caught  in  the  act  of  assaulting 
her,  and  is  killed  with  a  spade. 

Sursum  Corda  (1894)  is  socialistic  in  tendency. 
It  is  to  some  extent  an  autobiographical  novel ; 
the  socialist  hero  is  no  doubt  Buysse  himself. 
There  is  also  autobiography  in  'n  Leeuw  van 
Vlaanderen  (A  Lion  of  Flanders) :  the  hero  is 
filled  with  longing  to  improve  the  lot  of  the 
Flemish  poor.  His  experiences  in  Parliament  dis- 
illusionise and  disgust  him,  and  he  learns  that  what 

good  he  is  to  do  he  must  do  in  his  private  capacity, 

327 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

with  none  but  his  devoted  wife  to  help  him.  Op  V 
Blauwhuis  (In  the  Blue  House)  is  the  old  story  of 
a  girl  of  noble  birth  brought  up  in  seclusion  and 
in  total  ignorance  of  the  facts  of  life.  Nature  and 
the  beasts  teach  her.  Daarna  (Afterwards)  shows 
that  the  higher  classes  are  as  corrupt  as  the  lower 
classes.  Wroeging  (Remorse),  Te  Lande  (In  the 
Country),  Uit  Vlaanderen  (From  the  Land  of 
Flanders),  and  Van  Arme  Menschen  (Poor  Folks) 
are  collections  of  short  stories,  many  of  them  of 
great  power. 

Another  Flemish-writing  novelist  with  a  con- 
siderable reputation  is  Herman  Teirlinck,  who 
lives  at  Brussels,  the  scene  of  his  Het  Ivoren 
Aapje  (The  Ivory  Ape).  August  Vermeylen, 
better  known  as  poet  and  critic,  has  written  a 
notable  novel,  De  Wandelende  Jood  (The  Wander- 
ing Jew).  An  Albertian  novelist  whose  reputation 
is  growing,  especially  in  Holland,  is  Gustaav  Ver- 
meersch  {^Het  Rollende  Leven^  1901). 


328 


CHAPTER  XIII 

POETS    IN    FLEMISH 

The  most  important  of  the  Flemish  poets  write 
in  French.  It  is  useless  for  the  flamingants  to 
claim  that  their  Flemish-writing  poets  are  little 
known  abroad  owing  to  the  mere  accident  that 
they  write  in  Flemish :  and  that  on  the  other  hand 
poets  like  Verhaeren  and  Maeterlinck  would  have 
been  seen  in  their  true  proportion  if  they  had 
written  in  Flemish.  The  French-writing  Flemings 
do  not  necessarily  write  in  French  because  they  are 
greater  men  than  those  who  write  in  Flemish ; 
but  the  fact  remains,  when  values  are  dispassion- 
ately compared  by  international  standards,  that 
there  are  no  Flemish-writing  poets  who  reach  the 
height  of  Verhaeren  or  Giraud.  That  is  not  to  say 
that  no  Flemish- writing  poet  is  worthy  of  the  most 
serious  attention  :  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Flemish- 
written  poetry  is  often  very  beautiful ;  and  the  very 

qualities  of  the  language  give  it  a  character  of  its 

329 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

own,  a  character  rather  of  quaintness  and  idyllic 
quiet  than  of  strength  and  revolutionary  ardour. 
The  greatest  fault  that  can  be  charged  against 
Flemish  (as  against  Dutch)  poetry  is  its  lack  of 
originality  :  no  Flemish  poet  has  invented  a  style 
of  his  own  or  cogitated  matter  which  cannot  be 
found  at  least  in  germ  in  other  literatures.  To 
the  same  extent  as  Ledeganck  imitated  Byron, 
Pol  de  Mont  has  imitated  Tennyson  and  Long- 
fellow and  the  German  classics.  Even  the  Im- 
pressionists, the  poets  who  in  recent  years  have 
denounced  all  the  productions  of  their  forerunners 
to  burn  their  brains  out  in  a  struggle  for  an  un- 
compromising originality,  import  the  essence  of 
their  manner  from  the  German  nebulousness  of 
Stefan  George  and  Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal. 

In  Germany  at  all  events  one  Flemish-writing 
poet  has  had  full  justice  done  to  him.  Pol  de 
Mont  has  been  translated  into  German,  and  his 
lecturing  tours  in  the  Fatherland  have  helped  to 
make  his  name  familiar.  In  his  case,  indeed,  popu- 
larity has  been  helped  by  the  fact  that  he  was  one 
of  the  acknowledged  chiefs  in  Belgium  of  the  Pan- 

Germanist  school,  and  that  he  has  worked  unceas- 

330 


Poets  in  Flemish 

ingly  as  a  writer  and  as  an  orator  to  spread  the 
German  idea.  His  political  activity  has  probably 
been  nefarious  ;  but  we  shall  do  no  harm  if  we  follow 
the  Germans  in  giving  him  his  due  as  a  poet. 

Pol  de  Mont,  whose  best  verse  is  contained 
in  Claribella  (1893)  and  Iris  (1894),  is  a  senti- 
mental and  a  sensual  poet.  His  sentimentality 
often  verges  on  the  ludicrous,  but  at  his  best  he 
strikes  poetry  out  of  it — a  poetry  which  as  a  genre 
claims  a  suggestive  interest  apart  from  its  intrinsic 
merit.  We  ought  to  admit  that  the  very  follies 
of  Continental  poets  often  allow  them  to  write 
genuine  poetry  which  our  writers,  restrained  by  a 
saner  but  too  severe  tradition,  could  never  have 
conceived.  An  idea  of  Pol  de  Mont's  sentiment- 
ality and  puerile  images  may  be  gathered  from 
his  "  Love  lies  Bleeding  "  : 

"  My  love  like  a  pale  flower  lies  bleeding  .  .  . 
My  love  is  withering  away 
Like  a  pale  flower  on  stale  water  feeding 

In  a  glass,  for  a  day. 
My  love  like  a  dim  candle  is  pining, 

Which,  when  the  grey  dawn  flecks  the  skies, 
Before  Our  Dear  Lady  still  is  shining, 
All  in  a  flowery  Paradise. 
331 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Its  delicate  flame  burned  the  night-tide  through 

— A  fiery  Hly 
On  a  slender  stem  of  a  milk-white  hue — 

But  now  morn  is  chilly, 
And  the  light  burns  out  amid  Our  Dear  Lady's  roses, 
Like  a  glazing  eye  that  for  ever  closes. 

"  Now  like  a  royal  maiden  is  my  love, 

The  last  child  of  a  long  line :  shy  and  tender, 
Poor  bird  to  be  slain,  as  the  cold  wind  slays  a  dove. 
Trembling    and    pale    she   is,    alone,    in    the    great 
splendour 
Of  the  old  grey  palace.   .  .  .  She  sits  by  the  window 

pane. 
And  sees  the  flowers  raising  their  gentle  heads. 
And  opening,   opening,  opening,  glad  of  the    sun  and 

the  rain, 
Like  children's  eyes  shining  in  the  garden  beds  .   .  . 

"  She  knows  well,  there  are  no  flowers  she  will  cull  .  .  . 
She  folds  her  hands  together,  she  knows  not  how 
Her  pining,  weary  heart  is  suffering  now  .   .  . 
She  is  tired,  so  tired,  now  that  the  park  is  full 
Of  birds'  voices  ringing,  ringing,  ringing,  in  her  ears, 
And  secretly  she  weeps  her  sorrow  in  hot  tears  .   .  . 
She  weeps — for  roses,  that  have  never  bloomed. 
For  the  poor  bird  in  the  egg-shell  entombed, 
Haply  for  eyes  that  glowing  sought  her  own, 
Haply  for  kisses  she  has  never  known   .  .  ." 

He   is   a  master  of  nature-painting,    especially   of 

332 


Poets  in   Flemish 

pastoral  scenes.     Take,  for  instance,  his  "  Evening 
Landscape"  : 

"  Softly  the  day  dies  out  behind  the  pines  ; 

Over  the  heathland  still  the  red  light  blazes ; 
But  paler  now  and  paler  the  sun  shines 

On  the  thin  pastures  dotted  o'er  with  daisies. 

"  The  plain  is  vast.     The  mists  of  evening  lie 

Spread  at  the  verge  in  veils  that  shift  and  shimmer ; 
Yonder  a  tree  uprears  to  the  azure  sky 

Its  leaves  that  in  the  twilight  faintly  glimmer. 

"  Now  listen  !     Not  a  sound  stirs  far  and  wide. 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  leafy  cover ; 
Only  a  cricket  chirps  by  the  way-side, 

And  ghostly  breezes  o'er  the  landscape  hover. 

"  Slowly,  as  though  afraid  of  her  own  feet 

On  the  parched  grass,  the  shepherdess  is  leading 
Home  to  the  fold  her  flock  too  tired  to  bleat, 
Red  in  the  light  the  dying  sun  is  bleeding." 

One  at  least  of  his  poems,  "The  Heart  that  is 
Dead,"  reads  like  an  echo  of  Swinburne : 

"  My  heart  is  dead  ! — And  who  shall  lay  it 
In  its  coffin  ? — My  heart  is  dead  ! 
Its  thirst  was  sore,  and  none  would  allay  it  ; 

It  was  hungry,  and  no  one  brought  it  bread   .   .   . 
My  heart  is  dead  !     And  who  shall  lay  it 
In  its  coffin  ?      My  heart  is  dead. 
333 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  My  heart  is  dead  .  .   .  Let  it  rest  from  its  anguish 
In  the  first  best  grave  that  can  be  found. 

Come,  all  ye  dear  ones  that  saw  it  languish, 

Come  nearer,  and  see  it  laid  in  the  ground  .   .  . 

My  heart  is  dead  .   .   .  Let  it  rest  from  its  angush 
In  the  first  best  grave  that  can  be  found. 

"  My  heart  is  dead  ...  Ye  that  loved  it,  come  nearer, 

Come  near  it  now,  and  never  more. 
Tell  it,  though  dead  it  is  dearer  and  dearer. 

Speak  to  it  tenderly  as  of  yore. 
My  heart  is  dead  ...  Ye  that  loved  it,  come  nearer, 

Come  round  it  now,  and  never  more. 

"  You  brownest  of  maidens,  the  first  maid  that  filled  it, 
The  first  love  it  had  and  the  purest  aye, 
Close  with  a  soft  kiss  the  broad  wound  that  killed  it. 

Kiss  all  the  ill  that  it  did  you  away. 
You  brownest  of  maidens,  the  first  maid  that  filled  it. 
The  first  love  it  had,  and  the  purest  aye. 

"  You  with  the  sea-deep  eyes  that  smoulder, 

With  the  kisses  of  fire,  you  dark-haired  maid. 

Lift  it  up  tenderly  ere  it  grow  colder, 

Take  it  away  like  a  lamb  that  had  strayed. 

You  with  the  sea-deep  eyes  that  smoulder. 
With  the  kisses  of  fire,  you  dark-haired  maid. 

"And  you,  of  all  I  have  loved  the  sweetest, 

You  with  the  eyes  that  are  gentle  and  mild, 
334 


Poets  in  Flemish 

Lay  it  to  sleep  in  the  grave  that  is  meetest, 
Lay  it  to  sleep  like  a  little  child  .  .  . 

O  you,  of  all  I  have  loved  the  sweetest, 
Lay  it  to  sleep  like  a  little  child. 

"  Cover  it  over  with  cypress  and  throw  ye 

Softly  the  soil  on  the  heart  that  is  dead  .  .  . 
Then  in  solemn  silence  homewards  go  ye. 

But  never  remember  its  weedy  bed   .  .  . 
Cover  it  over  with  cypress  and  throw  ye 
Softly  the  soil  on  the  heart  that  is  dead." 

Much  of  Pol  de  Mont's   blank  verse,  such  as 
this  poem  of  "  Ophelia,"  reads  like  Tennyson  : 

"  Even  as  in  May  a  rustling  shower  at  noon 
— While  from  the  South  the  vernal  sun  bepaints 
The  falling  drops  with  all  his  seven  hues — 
Rains  like  a  crystal  cataract  of  light 
On  the  green  fields,  and  yet  is  melancholy, 
As  deeply  melancholy  as  the  face 
Of  a  young  wife  that  through  her  bridal  veil 
Weeps  at  her  wedding  for  an  earlier  love ; — 
Even  so  paced  the  white  maid  of  Elsinore, 
Pale  as  a  corpse,  with  eyes  wept  red,  that  stared 
Into  an  empty  space,  and  yet  she  smiled. 
And  yet  she  hummed  a  ballad,  as  she  passed 
Through  the  King's  deer-park  to  the  quiet  brook. 

"O  sun  and  rain  together,  O  joy  and  grief 
In  one  poor  heart,  O  sense  and  folly  blent  .   .  . 
335 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

O  bitter  tears  and  pallor  witnessing 

A  pain  that  is  unconscious  of  itself  .  .  . 

But  far  more  bitter  broken  song  and  laughter, 

The  wistful  tokens  of  a  mind  diseased   .  .   . 

And  ever  laughing,  ever  singing,  like 

A  little  child  that  sings  because  a  song, 

So  often  heard  and  recollected  half, 

Echoes  by  chance  along  his  memory — 

Even  so,  beneath  high  beeches  from  whose  boughs 

The  dews  of  morning  dripped,  slowly  she  passed, 

Onward  without  a  will,  and  brake  and  culled 

The  wildflowers  of  the  meadow — like  a  child. 

"  But  where  the  tufted  grasses  by  the  brook 
Are  hung  with  jewels  of  splashed  foam,  and  surge 
Like  tiny  waves  when  the  west  wind  is  blowing, 
She  stayed  her  listless  feet  and  sang  no  more, 
And,  playing,  she  cast  the  wildflowers  into  the  water. 
With  wide  blue  eyes  watching  them  as  they  fell 
And  wakened  shining  circles  in  the  waves 
That  rippled  to  the  sedges  of  the  shore. 

"  But  the  last  wildflower  of  her  gaudy  bunch — 
A  silver-hearted  daisy  with  no  scent — 
First  pensively  she  held  it  to  her  nose, 
And  then  she  put  the  green  stalk  into  her  mouth. 
Heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  to  her  temples  pressed 
Her  delicate  hands,  hummed  the  old  ballad  again, 
And  then — stretching  her  arms  out  like  a  child 
That  fights  with  sleep — she  stared  and  stared  at  the  sun 
That  shot  his  watery  rays  from  the  dull  West. 

336 


Poets  in  Flemish 

"  Then  from  the  reeds  a  dragon-fly  flew  up, 
With  gold-green  belly  and  black  shining  wings. 
Laughing  she  snatched  at  it  with  shimmering  hands  .  .  , 
Then  she  unbraided  all  her  golden  hair 
And  shuddered   .  .   . 

With  a  loud  splash  she  fell 
On  the  still  water.      Gurgling  bubbles  rose 
From  the  deep  mud,  and  here  and  there  a  fish 
Showed  twinkling  fins  that  swam  to  the  farther  shore. 

*'  And  all  was  silent,  all  the  leaves  were  still ! 
In  blue  dreams  sank  the  evening,  the  soft  gloam 
Phantastically  dimmed  the  shapes  of  things 
Till  wood  and  hill  and  house  and  castle  tower 
Faded  afar  in  the  half-dark  of  a  dream, 
And  soon  themselves  seemed  visions,  empty  dreams. 

"  But  slowly  in  the  clouded  grey  of  the  sky 
A  narrow  moon  ventured  her  pallid  face 
And  wept  her  long  pale  argent  rays  upon 
The  white  maid  floating  down  the  quiet  brook, 
Still  with  the  daisy  in  her  lips,  the  while 
Around  her  head  the  glory  of  her  hair 
Was  billowing — like  a  golden  aureole   .   .   ." 

But  his  blank  verse  has  sometimes  a  more 
German  rudeness.  His  **  Veteran  of  W5rth " 
might  have  been  written  by  Liliencron : 

"  It  haunts  my  memory. 

It  Was  at  Worth, 
On  the  sixth  of  August  in  the  year  of  blood. 
337  Y 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

At  evening,  six  o'clock.     We  wandered  through 
The  far-stretched  battlefield  to  see  if  haply 
Any  yet  lived  amid  so  many  dead. 
Our  quest  was  vain  :  cold,  dumb,  and  motionless 
Lay  every  body,  as  though  bathed  in  blood. 

"  And  in  a  field  of  hops  we  came  upon 
A  sight  of  horror :  in  a  sea  of  blood 
— I  know  the  word  is  a  commonplace,  I  know — 
There  lay  a  whole  battalion,  man  for  man, 
Of  the  blue  soldiers  from  Bavaria, 
L3ring  with  upturned  faces  on  their  backs. 
Mowed  down,  a  whole  battalion,  dead,  all  dead. 
Only  the  Colonel's  horse,  a  dappled  grey, 
A  big,  strong  horse,  was  fighting  still  with  death. 
It  neighed,  its  voice  seemed  human  in  its  pain, 
Like  a  complaint,  it  rolled  about  in  blood, 
And  stretched  its  twitching  feet  into  the  air. 

"  And  see :  quite  near  the  dead,  quite  near  the  blood. 
Nay,  in  the  midst  of  it,  there  lay  untouched 
And  freshly  green,  one  patch  of  meadow  land. 
Hardly  a  foot  across  from  side  to  side, 
And  over  it  a  bright  red  poppy  flower 
Cradled  its  unstained  petals,  and  in  them. 
Laden  and  drunk  with  honey,  hummed  a  bee. 

"  And  the  frail  poppy  and  the  humming  bee, 
Full  five  miles  round,  were  the  only  living  things 
That  the  wild  battle  had  in  piity  spared.'' 

338 


Poets  in   Flemish 

Perhaps  Pol  de  Mont's  best  work  is  a  series 
of  poems  Of  Jesus,  in  which  he  tells  the  story 
of  the  Saviour's  birth.  These  poems  are  imita- 
tions of  old  Flemish  ballads,  and  they  keep  the 
unevenness  and  the  absurd  anachronisms  of  the 
originals.  Mary  and  Joseph  are  an  honest  Flemish 
couple  who  talk  and  act  just  as  such  a  couple  might 
do  in  our  own  day.  Here  is  **The  Journey  to 
Bethlehem  "  : 

"  Mary  and  Joseph  in  winter  time 
Were  summoned  to  Bethlehem  ; 
His  was  a  poor  man's  house,  and  there  were 
No  shoes  for  either  of  them. 

"  It  hailed  and  it  snowed  and  the  drifts  lay  high — 
'Twould  have  moved  a  stone  to  pity ; 
Gentle  Mary  said  with  a  sigh : 
*  I  shall  never  get  to  the  city. 

"  *  My  limbs  feel  so  heavy,  dear  Joseph, 
Farther  I  cannot  win  ; 
Let  us  go  to  the  farmhouse  yonder, 
And  ask  them  to  take  us  in.' 

"  They  dragged  their  way  through  slush  and  snow  ; 
She  was  leaning  on  his  arm. 
She  said  :  '  Do  not  let  me  fall,  Joseph, 
Before  we  reach  the  farm.' 
321^ 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Now  the  farm  was  the  burgomaster's  house  ; 
He  was  locking  the  door  for  the  night. 
Joseph  said  :   '  Do  not  turn  us  away  ! 
Have  pity  on  our  plight ! 


" '  Grant  us  a  place  at  your  hearthstone, 
And  straw  for  our  weary  heads  ! ' 
Said  the  burgomaster :  '  This  is  no  inn  ! 
You  must  go  to  the  inn  for  beds.' 

"  There  was  a  stable  a  long  mile  away — 
Mary  was  moaning  and  crying. 
Joseph  cheered  her  :   *  Take  heart,  dear  wife  !  * 
But  she  was  almost  dying. 

"  And  when  they  came  to  the  stable  at  last, 
It  was  a  wretched  house  ; 
And  at  the  manger,  tethered  fast, 
There  were  asses  and  cows. 

"  It  was  cold,  and  Joseph  heaped  dry  dung  and  straw, 
And  struck  a  fire  with  his  steel. 
Mary  moaned  :   '  If  we  only  had  milk, 
To  make  an  evening  meal ! ' 

"Joseph  went  out  to  fetch  water, 
But  the  well  was  frozen  up : 
He  brake  the  ice  with  his  good  long  staff, 
And  so  there  was  water  to  sup. 
340 


Poets  in  Flemish 

"  But  when  he  came  back  to  the  stable, 
Bringing  that  water  cold, 
A  Babe  lay  in  our  Dear  Lady's  lap, 
Naked,  sweet  to  behold. 

"  Mary  said  :   *  My  Babe,  my  Lord  ! 
Emmanuel  Thy  name  shall  be. 
Kneel,  Joseph,  kneel,  and  worship  the  Babe ! 
Now  we  are  freed  from  poverty,'  " 

More   reverently   comical    is    "In   the    Stable,"   a 
perfect  example  of  a  Flemish  carol : 

"  He  woke  up  his  son  at  the  dead  of  the  night, 
The  burgomaster  of  Bethlehem  : 
'  Go  now  to  the  stable  where  beggars  lodge, 
And  bring  me  news  of  them. 

" '  An  old  man  is  there  and  a  gentle  maid  : 
We  do  not  know  who  they  are ; 
Harmless  they  seem,  but  they  may  be  thieves  ; 
We  must  not  trust  them  too  far ! ' 

"  The  son  loosed  the  mastiff  from  the  chain. 

Took  his  knotty  stick  in  his  hand. 

And  gripping  his  pipe  between  his  teeth 

Strode  away  o'er  his  father's  land. 

"  And  when  he  came  to  the  Chapel,  lo  ! 
Just  over  the  stable  shone 
The  brightest  and  the  loveliest  star 
He  ever  had  looked  upon. 
341 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

"  And  when  he  came  to  the  cross-roads,  hark  1 
A  choir  of  cherubs  was  singing 
All  round  that  lowly  stable  there, 
And  viols  and  harps  were  ringing. 


"  And  when  he  came  to  the  stable  door, 
He  heard  great  trumpets  blowing, 
And  between  the  stable  and  the  sky 
Angels  were  coming  and  going. 

"  He  turned  him  back  to  his  father,  and  said : 
'  Oh  this  is  a  happy  morn  ! 
In  the  stable  where  cattle  and  beggars  lie, 
A  Saviour  to  us  is  born  ! ' " 

A  contemporary  of  Pol  de  Mont  is  Victor  de 
la  Montagne  (born  1854).  He  writes  charming 
little  songs  such  as  "  Love's  Meandering  "  : 

"  As  the  purling  brook  to  the  sea  goes, 
As  to  my  heart  the  blood, 
So  my  every  thought  to  thee  flows, 
To  thee,  my  own  true  love. 

"  As  the  purHng  brook  in  the  sea  winds 
Into  a  gulf  of  pride. 
So  my  every  thought  in  thee  finds 
Its  meaning  magnified. 
342 


i 


Poets  in   Flemish 

"  And  as  in  my  heart  my  blood  is 
Cleansed  of  the  dross  of  its  fire, 
In  thee  my  yearning  studies 
A  pureness  of  desire. 

"  As  the  purling  brook  to  the  sea  goes, 
As  to  my  heart  the  blood, 
So  my  every  thought  to  thee  flows, 
To  thee,  my  own  true  love." 

With  what  a  strange  familiarity  the  Flemish 
poets  "play  in  the  straw  with  the  infant  of  Beth- 
lehem "  may  be  seen  again  from  the  following 
poem  by  Edmond  van  Offel  (born  at  Antwerp 
1 871).     He  calls  it  simply  "  A  Little  Song  "  : 

"  Sweet  Jesus  jumps  out  of  His  little  bed, 
And  sends  all  the  bed-clothes  flying. 

"  — *  O  Jesus  dear,  take  my  heart  on  Your  breast. 
My  heart  that  is  weeping  and  sighing ! ' 

"  Sweet  Jesus  robes  the  city  in  white, 
In  white  like  the  bride  at  the  altar. 

"  — *  O  Jesus  dear,  take  my  soul  to  Your  side, 
And  never  again  shall  it  falter !  * 

"  Sweet  Jesus  lays  the  fields  to  sleep, 
The  fields  that  are  weary  and  ailing. 
343 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  — '  O  Jesus,  give  me  my  innocence  back, 
And  keep  my  poor  feet  from  failing  ! '  " 


In  this  "little  song"  there  is  of  course  more 
than  meets  the  eye,  and  generally  Edmond  van 
Offel  secretes  himself  in  the  panoply  of  a  refined 
symbolism.     Atmosphere,  not  meaning  : 

"  Afternoon  broods  o'er  the  green, 
And  everything  were  fain  to  sleep, 
Because  the  sun  will  not  be  seen. 
Over  all  a  silence  deep ; 
All  ears  are  closed,  and  there  is  not 
One  step  upon  the  parched  grass  plot. 
And  everything  were  fain  to  sleep, 
Because  the  sun  will  not  be  seen. 

"  The  young  woman  does  her  hair, 
But  with  no  care,  but  with  no  will. 
Great  joy  is  lying  stiff  and  still. 
Still  as  the  parched  green  carpet,  where 
The  last  flower  lies  sick  and  ill. 
In  dead,  dry  leaves  and  dusty  green. 
Great  joy  is  lying  stiff  and  still, 
Because  the  sun  will  not  be  seen. 

"  The  young  woman  does  her  hair, 
But  with  no  will,  but  with  no  care. 
She  fain  would  sleep,  but  cannot  sleep  ; 
344 


Poets  in   Flemish 

She  fain  would  go,  but  knows  not  where, 
And  lays  her  fair  young  flesh  in  the  green, 
And  cannot  dream,  and  cannot  weep. 

*'  — The  sun  to-day  shall  not  be  seen  .  .  . 
The  young  woman  lays  her  limbs 
Where  the  grey  dust  the  greensward  dims. 
And  when  the  purple  satyr  leaps 
Out  of  the  reeds  that  do  not  sway. 
The  listless  nymph  runs  not  away. 
The  satyr  stands  amazed,  and  creeps 
Into  the  chilly  reeds  again, 
His  heart  more  heavy  than  with  pain. 

"And  everything  is  sick  and  still. 
Because  the  sun  is  tired  and  ill  ..." 

He  can,  however,  strike  the  popular  note,  as  in 
"  A  Song  of  Praise,"  one  of  the  best  known  of 
modern  Flemish  poems : 

"  I  hold  my  sweet  young  love  so  dear 
With  all  the  strength  that  fills  me, 
With  all  my  will,  with  all  the  pride, 
With  all  the  fire  that  thrills  me. 

"  I  hold  my  love  so  warmly  dear 
In  earnest  striving  ever  ; 
Crowned  she  dwells  by  all  my  hope 
At  the  heart  of  my  endeavour. 
345 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  She  is  a  mother  when  I  grieve, 
A  child  to  play  with  my  leisure, 
To  my  thinking  she  is  a  sweet  sister, 
And  a  good  wife  for  my  pleasure. 


"  Where'er  she  goes,  she  bears  my  heart 
Close  nested  in  her  attire  ; 
Where'er  she  breathes,  she  lives  in  the  light 
Of  my  limitless  desire. 

"  And  all  the  building  my  hands  do 
Shall  be  my  truelove's  dwelling, 
A  Palace  rising  round  my  love. 
Magnificent  beyond  telling. 

"  I  hold  my  love  so  dear  with  all 
For  which  my  soul  has  striven  ; 
The  deepest  and  the  best  of  me 
To  her  alone  is  given." 

Victor  de  Meyere  (born  1873),  too,  combines 
a  modern  subtlety  with  a  more  popular  appeal,  as 
in  his  "  Night's  Gentleness  "  : 

"  A  gentleness  breathed  from  everywhere 
Round  all  things  now  is  flowing, 
Floating  and  hovering  in  the  air, 

And  softened  lights  now  are  glowing. 
346 


Poets  in  Flemish 

"  A  perfume  as  of  crushed  desire 

From  the  thick  of  the  bushes  is  sighing  .   .  , 
The  soul  of  something  is  moaning  low, 
And  in  the  foliage  dying  .  .  . 

"  Something,  too,  is  dying  in  me  .  .  . 
Something  in  me  is  weeping — 
Something  that  seeks  for  sweet  words  to  soothe 
My  eyes  till  they  are  sleeping  .  .  . 

"  And  heavier,  heavier  on  my  lips 
The  stifled  silence  is  weighing. 
Because  there  wells  forth  from  my  heart 
A  pity  beyond  all  saying 

"  For  the  man  who  walks  his  path  alone. 
Who  has  no  loved  one  to  cheer  him, 
No  bosom  where  he  can  rest  his  head. 
No  love  in  the  night-tide  near  him  .   .  ." 

The  poets  who  are  the  paladins  of  modernity 

are   Prosper  van   Langendonck  (born  at  Brussels 

1862),  August  Vermeylen  (born  at  Brussels  1872), 

and    Karel    van    de    Woestijne    (born    at    Ghent 

1878).     They   were   associated   in   the   foundation 

of  the  review    Van  nu  en  Straks  in   1893.     They 

are  impressionists  rather  than  symbolists,  and  very 

few  of  their   countrymen    understand    them.     But 

347 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

obscurity  can  only  be  charged  against  van  de 
Woestijne,  the  greatest  of  the  three ;  and  his 
obscurity  is  the  measure  of  his  depth.  There  is 
no  obscurity  in  these  three  mood-paintings  by 
van  Langendonck  : 

I 
"  I  am  strange  at  heart  .   .  .  Whelmed  and  bedimmed  as 
when 
November  vapour  the  chill  forest  loads. 
I  am  sad  at  heart,  like  one  whose  breast  forebodes, 
Though  choked  with  tears,  it  never  will  weep  again. 

"  I  am  sick  at  heart  .  .   .   O  that  the  strength  of  men 
Ne'er  girt  me  !  O  to  be  free  from  all  that  goads, 
To  pierce  the  whence  and  whither  of  the  roads, 
And  why  life  lures  us  first  and  baulks  us  then. 

"  From  ocean's  deeps  we  climb  to  seek  the  air 
And  the  free  light,  with  frantic  gasping  breath, 
Only  to  meet  the  ice-crust  of  despair, 
And  breathless  there  to  hang  'tween  life  and  death. 

"  I  am  sad  at  heart,  like  one  whose  breast  forebodes, 
Though  choked  with  tears,  it  never  will  weep  again  " 

II 

"  It  is  my  heart  that  beats  in  the  black  tower, 
Above  the  streets  deserted  in  the  rain ; 
Pent  in  its  narrow  cell  it  throbs  amain, 
Panting,  in  this  quiet  evening  hour. 
348 


Poets  in   Flemish 

"  It  is  my  heart  that  moans  in  the  black  tower, 
Weeping  into  the  piteous  air  its  pain 
In  cries  of  grief  for  ever  born  again, 
And  falling  o'er  deaf  houses  like  a  shower. 

"  Listen  !     It  is  my  heart  that  they  are  tearing  ! 
My  worn-out  heart,  whose  passionate  despairing. 
Uttering  the  whole  world's  pain,  cries  out  for  pity ! 

"  And  high  o'er  those  that  rend  it,  raised  above 
All  ecstasies  of  human  hate  and  love 
It  sheds  its  helpless  anguish  o'er  the  city." 

HI 

"  In  pain  I  bore  you,  but  with  double  bliss 
I  have  cherished  you,  and  warmed  you  with  my  fire, 
Called  you  the  children  of  my  heart's  desire, 
Despite  my  womb's  most  bitter  agonies. 

"  My  children  !      On  your  brow  has  burnt  my  kiss  ! 
I  have  cared  for  you  with  love  that  could  not  tire, 
And  reared  you  to  be  full  of  holy  ire, 
And  fierce  in  battle  where  injustice  is — 

"  But  now,  when  all  my  fire  in  you  should  flare, 
Yea,  all  the  passion  that  my  spirit  boasts. 
Your  hopeless  misery  my  affection  thwarts  ! 

"  Why  will  you,  with  your  eyes  that  stare  and  stare, 
Close  in  upon  me  like  a  ring  of  ghosts  ? 
— O  children  of  my  spirit,  O  my  thoughts  ! " 

349 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

In  mood-painting,  too,  lies  August  Vermeylen's 
strength : 

BRUGES 

I .   Litanies 

"  O  !  in  the  dusk  of  these  sepulchral  chapels 
The  singsong  of  these  long,  long  litanies  ! 
The  candles  shine  before  the  crape- veiled  Cross 
Whereon  a  Christ  is  dying,  centuries  old, 
With  a  thin  writhing  body,  black  with  blood. 
Deep  in  the  dusk  the  great  tall  candles  shine 
And  conjure  forth  shadows  that  come  and  go 
Upon  the  motionless  capes  and  sombre  hoods 
Of  old,  old  women  that  with  yellow  hands 
Folded,  incessantly  reiterate 
The  singsong  of  their  long,  long  litanies. 

"  It  is  a  distant  humming  of  faint  voices, 
The  tremulous  singsong  of  these  litanies  ; 
A  lamentation  murmured  quietly — 
Trailing,  with  its  timid  *  Pray  for  us  ! ' 
Returning  ever,  a  persistent  wail 
For  penance  in  the  nightmare  of  a  sin  .  .   . 
It  is  a  faint  far  humming  of  dead  voices. 
Moaning  humility  and  wretchedness, 
Dumb  pain,  the  undying  pain  of  all  the  world  !  .  .  . 
O  !  in  the  dusk  of  these  sepulchral  chapels 
Old  women  singing  these  long  litanies, 
These  mumbled  prayers,  for  souls  in  purgatory ! 
35fc> 


Poets  in  Flemish 

2.   Saturday  Evening 

"  This  seems  an  evening  of  long,  long  ago  .   .  . 
The  bells  are  tolling  for  the  djang  sun. 
Through  lofty  windows  bleed  the  last  sunbeams, 
And  slowly,  wave  by  wave,  into  the  church 
Stream  shadows.     Slowly,  slowly  the  bells  strew 
The  heart-pain  of  this  evening  o'er  the  land  .   .  . 

"  Now,  like  a  dying  heart,  that  hardly  beats 
Its   last  tired    throbs  .  .   . — Then    silence.     Far   and 

wide  .  .   . 
Only  a  hollow  footfall  seems  afar 
To  trail  its  way  o'er  cemetery  stones. 

'<  My  thoughts  pace  on  as  silent  widows  do. 
The  evening  filters  through  into  my  soul  ..." 

Karel  van  de  Woestijne  defies  translation  and 
quotation.  He  is  the  Mallarm^  of  the  Flemings. 
.  .  .  This  elegy  might  be  attempted  : 

"  Child,  your  white  face  is  chanting  memories, 
And  the  sweet  story  of  your  days  and  mine, 
Which  in  our  life  like  quiet  gardens  lay 
Bathed  in  the  tender  twilight  dying  out ; 
While  around  gardens  green  the  heavens  are 
A  quiet  robe  of  shadows  calm  and  slow, 
And  while  among  the  trees  the  last  bird's  voice 
Glows  in  a  long-drawn  elegy  that  sinks 
Slowly,  and  revives,  and  sinks  again  .  .  . 

351 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

"  Now,  O  my  child,  no  song  lives  round  us,  and  no 
Peace-days  like  quiet  gardens  round  us  live  ; 
No  twilight  weaves  around  our  mingling  dream. 
And  shadows  sad  steal  round  our  parted  limbs  .   .   . 

"And  in  the  night  I  see,  last  comfort,  only 
Your  tired  white  face  still  trembling,  all  in  tears  .   .   ." 

Or  this  wistful  musing  : 

"  How  should  I  know  whether  my  love  in  you  shall  sink, 

O  child, 
You  that  are  calm  and  simply  tender  like  the  eve  round 

grassy  graves  .   .   . 
For  who  that  sets  out  with  a  heart  that  nothing  craves, 
Who  knows  what  woman  shall  refresh  his  lips 
With  juicy  fruits  and  love's  sweet,  restful  gifts  ? 

"  For  see,  I  think  of  you,  though  you  are  strange  to  me, 

although, 
Simple,  calm,  and  tender  you  are  living  in  my  soul. 
Although  no  fears  of  love  seize  on  your  quiet  breath  to 

make  it  race, 
Although  your  gestures  do  not  seek  my  life : 
I  think  of  your  grey  eye,  calm  in  your  white  face." 

**  A  Song  of  Fever  "  presents  no  difficulties  : 

"  It  is  so  sad,  this  raining  in  the  autumn, 
This  beautiful  rain  in  the  autumn,  out  of  doors, 
— How  heavy  all  the  flowers  are  in  the  autumn  ; 
— And  the  old  rain  running  along  the  panes  .  .  . 

35« 


Poets  in   Flemish 

Gray  in  the  grayness  stand  the  trees  and  sway, 
The  trees  that  are  shivering  so  and  rustling  tears  ; 
— ^And  it  is  the  wind,  and  it  so  droll  a  way 
Of  singing  and  sighing  in  the  crowns  of  the  trees  .  .  . 

"  Now  I  am  waiting  for  the  shuffling  tread, 
I  am  waiting  for  the  ancient  picture  of  peace, 
Old  good  gray  mother  comfort  round  the  deep  bed 
Where  the  warm  fever  is  dreaming  it  is  alight. 
And  the    thick  tears    burst  through    their    weight    of 
lead  .   .   . 

" .   .   .   It  is  so  sad  that  I  must  be  wretched  now 
— It  is  so  sad  this  raining  in  the  autumn  .   .   ." 


353 


CHAPTER   XIV 

ESSAYISTS,   CRITICS,  AND   SCHOLARS 

Of  Belgian  essayists  the  prince  is  of  course 
Maeterlinck,  and  it  might  have  been  expected  that 
his  success  would  have  produced  imitators.  This 
is  not  the  case,  however.  The  other  Belgian 
essayists  who  have  any  reputation  have  each  a 
style  of  their  own,  and  no  motto  of  the  olden 
days  has  been  kept  more  in  honour  from  year  to 
year  than  Lemonnier's  Soyons  nous.  Unfortunately 
the  essayists  are  for  the  most  part  lost  in  the  sea 
of  journalism ;  but  those  whose  essays  have  been 
collected  and  issued  in  book  form  are  tangible  per- 
sonalities with  something  new  to  offer. 

The  most  eminent,  after  Maeterlinck,  is  Edmond 
Picard.  He  is  an  author  whom  it  is  very  hard  to 
characterise.  He  has  written  enormously,  and  it 
might  have  been  equally  pertinent  to  discuss  him 
as  a  dramatist,   for  his  plays  {Jericho,  Psuke,  Le 

Jure,   Fatigue  de    Vivre,   Ambidextre  Journaliste, 

354 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

La  Joyeuse  Entree  de  Charles-le-Temiraire)  have 

some  claim  to  originality :   they  aim  at  creating  a 

"  theatre  of  ideas."     But  their  discussions  are  only 

another   manifestation    of  the  unresting  activity — 

political,  social,  philosophic,  critical — of  a  man  who 

must   have   his   finger   in   every  pie.     All  he  has 

written  is  only  interesting  as  an  expression  of  the 

multiple   mind  of  Edmond   Picard ;    and   perhaps 

when  his  personal  influence — he  is  a  Maecenas  and 

great  fomenter  of  literary  work — has  passed  away 

his   works   will   fall   out  of  literature.     But  at  all 

events   he   is   at  the  moment   one  of   the  first  of 

Belgians  as  he  is  one  of  the  most  prominent  citizens 

of  Brussels.     His  books  of  travel  {^En  Congolie^  El 

Moghreb  al  Aksa,  Monseigneur  le  Mont  Blanc)  are 

well   known,   but  his  most  popular  work  are  the 

the  four  volumes  of  his  Scenes   de  la    Vie  Judici- 

aire  {Paradoxe  sur  lAvocat;  La  Forge  Roussel ; 

L' Amiral ;  Mon  Oncle  le  Jurisconsulte),  in  which, 

by  examples  from  everyday  life,  he  interprets  the 

spirit  of  law.    "  Uncle  Picard  "  is,  moreover,  famous 

in  Belgium  as  the  apostle  of  Belgian  nationalism. 

"  Belgian "  is  for  him  not  a  merely  geographical 

term   with    no   inner   meaning,    but    the    name   of 

355 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

something  markedly  individual  among  the  nations 
of  the  world.  Other  writers  have  divided  "  Belgian" 
into  two  parts;  "Flemish"  —  i.e.  Dutch;  and 
"Walloon" — i.e.  French.  Picard  will  have  none 
of  this ;  there  are,  according  to  him,  and  there 
must  be,  Belgians ;  and  he  wishes  the  Belgians  to 
be  conscious  and  proud  of  their  national  character- 
istics. His  adversaries  twit  him  with  having  in- 
vented rdme  beige,  the  Belgian  soul ;  but  the 
war  should  have  proved  that  he  was  a  far-sighted 
patriot. 

Another  politician  who  is  a  stylist  of  great  re- 
finement is  the  socialist  leader,  Jules  Destree.  He 
began  with  poems  in  prose,  Les  Chimeres  (1889), 
a  book  full  of  the  pessimism  of  the  period,  full 
of  disgust  with  life,  a  companion  volume  to  Gilkin's 
La  Nuit.  He  has  written  a  psychological  and 
social  novel :  Le  Secret  de  Frederic  Marcinal,  and 
a  study  of  Belgium's  black  country :  Le  Bon-Dieu- 
des-Gaulx.  Quelques  Histoires  de  Misericorde  are 
a  collection  of  socialist  tales.  Other  works  of  his 
are  Lettres  a  Jeanne  (1887);  Intagerie  Japonaise 
(1889) ;  Journal  des  Destree  (1892).     But  probably 

his    best    work    is   contained    in    Discours    Parle- 

356 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

mentaires  and  in  the  essays  of  Semailles  (19 13). 
Destr^e  is  also  a  distinguished  art  critic,  and 
he  has  done  much  to  popularise  art  among  the 
masses. 

Like  Destree's  Les  Chimeres^  Arnold  Coffin's 
books  are  black  with  pessimism.  His  style  is 
iced  with  the  hatred  of  the  follies  of  our  time. 
His  fiction  {Journal  (T Andre ^  1885  ;  Delzire  Moris; 
Maxine,  1887)  is  thinly  veiled  self-analysis,  not 
radically  different  from  that  in  the  essays  of  his 
Impressions  et  Sensations  (1888). 

A  writer  of  rare  books  with  restricted  editions, 

James  Vandrunen  is  known  as  a  stylist  who  with 

patient  words  colours  exquisite  reveries.     He  is  a 

writer  for  the  few ;  and  that  is  his  glory.     Elles ! 

(1887)  is  an  analysis  of  love  which  decides  against 

the   vulgarity   of  the   dream's  materialisation  and 

finds   its   refined   and    melancholy   delights   in   an 

intellectual    Mormonism.      Les  Forets  {1888)   are 

impressionistic  essays  which  describe  forests  with 

a   very   delicate  artistry  matched  by  the  form  of 

the  book  itself — it  is  printed  in  green,  blue,  red, 

silver,  pink,  and  black  letters  on  terra-cotta  paper. 

Quilleboeuf  (1888)  is  a  vieillerie  en  bleu  et  noir, 

357 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

a  piece  of  literary  tapestry  figuring  an  old  rock 
n  the  Seine  in  Normandy.  He  has  also  written 
books  of  travel  (Bn  Pays  Wallon^  1 900 ;  Heures 
Africaines,  19 10).  A  book  on  Vandrunen  has 
been  written  by  Auguste  Vierset,  one  of  the 
brilliant  writers  of  La  Wallonie.  Another  essay- 
ist who  chisels  every  sentence  is  Eugene  Baie 
{Epopee  Flamande ;  Sub  Umbra  et  sub  Rosa) ;  it 
is  perhaps  the  highest  praise  to  say  that  he  is 
hardly  read  by  any  except  his  fellow-craftsmen,  to 
whom  he  is  a  master. 

Among  the  younger  essayists  the  most  subtle 
is  perhaps  Charles  Bernard,  a  lawyer  and  journalist 
in  .Antwerp.  L^on  Souguenet  (a  Frenchman  by 
birth,  but  long  resident  in  Belgium)  is  a  force  in 
journalism ;  he  has  written  literary  criticism  {^Les 
Monstres  Beiges,  1 904),  a  book  on  London  {A  la 
D^couverte  de  Londres,  1909),  and  mLa  Victoire  des 
Vaincus  he  has  collaborated  with  Louis  Dumont- 
Wilden,  the  most  noted  of  contemporary  Belgian 
critics.  Dumont-Wilden  has  written  tales  (  Visages 
d£  Decadence ;  Coins  de  Bruxelles ;  Le  Coffre  aux 
Souvenirs) ;  a  species  of  guide-book,  La  Belgique 

Illustree ;  and  much  art  criticism  {Le  Portrait  en 

358 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

France ;  Fernand  Khnopjf).  His  Les  Soucis  des 
Dernters  Soirs  is  a  series  of  subtle  dialogues  in 
which  philosophic  doubt  is  probed  and  tortured. 
Dumont-Wilden  is  Edmond  Picard's  classic  anta- 
gonist :  far  from  believing  in  rdme  beige,  he  is  more 
French  than  the  French  themselves,  and  his  book 
of  essays  L' Esprit  Europeen  has  since  the  out- 
break of  the  war  been  awarded  a  large  sum  of 
money  by  the  French  Government.  It  is  one  of 
those  books  which  the  war  has  made  more  topical ; 
and  in  its  way  it  is  a  prophecy  of  the  French 
victory.  The  author  follows,  with  shrewd  obser- 
vation, the  growth  of  "the  French  spirit"  in 
Europe,  and  analyses  the  causes  of  its  ascendency. 
In  the  Middle  Ages,  he  establishes,  there  was 
something  that  could  be  called  a  European  spirit ; 
and  if  the  nations  of  Europe  were  to  be  threatened 
by  Islam  or  by  the  yellow  races  it  might  appear 
again.  But  this  European  spirit  was  held  together 
by  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  and  the  Reforma- 
tion destroyed  the  unity.  Since  Luther,  Europe 
has  been  nothing  more  than  a  collection  of  states 
each   of    which,    indifferent    to    any   moral    unity, 

strives  to  impose  its  domination  by  conquest.     The 

359 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

birth  of  the  new  spirit  was  in  humanism  :  religion 
had  been  nationalised,  humanism  is  international. 
The  history  of  literature  proves  that  in  this  new 
bond  of  nations  France  took  the  lead,  and  that  all 
the  nations  accepted  her  hegemony.  The  empire 
of  the  mind  is  French ;  the  empire  of  taste  is 
French.  French  culture  is  the  only  higher  culture. 
The  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  marked  the 
apogee  of  the  intellectual  domination  of  France  in 
Europe.  Everywhere  French  culture  was  super- 
posed on  national  and  popular  culture.  With  the 
Revolution  it  seemed  to  lose  its  prestige.  Europe 
had  willingly  submitted  to  the  ascendency  of  the 
French  aristocracy ;  it  was  hostile  to  the  French 
democracy.  After  1870  it  seemed  for  a  time  as 
if  the  nations  would  succeed  in  escaping  from  the 
fascination  of  French  culture.  But  they  did  not 
succeed,  and  their  efforts  only  went  to  show  the 
helplessness  of  rival  cultures.  Obviously,  if  there 
were  no  French  spirit,  there  would  be  no  European 
spirit,  that  is  to  say,  there  would  be  no  single 
culture  which  could  be  superposed  on  the  various 
national  cultures.     A    business   man   might  object 

that  Germany  and  Great  Britain  are  supreme,  as 

360 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

far  as  economic  power  is  concerned  ;  but  political 
economy,  with  its  vulgar  utilitarianism  and  its  in- 
difference for  the  things  of  the  mind,  will  never 
be  able  to  create  a  culture.  A  culture  is  always 
the  product  of  an  ^lite,  and  gold  does  not  repre- 
sent an  ^lite.  In  reality,  the  new  European  spirit 
is  being  created  by  a  cosmopolitan  dite  composed 
of  idle  people,  dilettanti,  artists,  great  lords,  and 
adventurers.  The  Jews  have  imported  a  new 
element  into  it ;  Slavs  and  Germans  are  more 
numerous  in  this  company  than  Frenchmen.  But 
this  world  none  the  less  expresses  itself  in  French, 
and  its  culture  is  French.  Nietzsche,  who  in- 
vented the  "  good  European,"  foresaw  a  species 
of  individual  who  should  be  "  essentially  super- 
national,  and  who,  as  a  distinctive  sign,  would 
possess,  physiologically  speaking,  a  maximum  of 
faculties  and  of  assimilative  force."  But  Nietzsche 
also  foresaw  reactions  in  the  direction  of  accentu- 
ated national  feeling ;  and  we  have  seen  such  re- 
actions in  recent  years.  Even  the  little  countries 
are  claiming  to  be  themselves  ;  and  in  France  for 
some  time   we  have  been  witnesses  of  a    sort   of 

reconstitution  of  the  national  feeling  whose  sudden 

361 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

explosion  is  to-day  striking  all  Europe  with  aston- 
ishment. There  is  a  fever  in  France  which  shows 
that  she  has,  besides  the  feeling  of  right  and 
justice,  the  passion  of  war.  Certain  of  the  "good 
Europeans "  are  disturbed  by  this  manifestation. 
They  love  France,  but  a  humiliated  France,  only 
on  condition  that  France  is  ih^grcsculus  of  modern 
Europe.  But  the  young  generation  of  Frenchmen 
want  none  of  that.  They  prefer  the  hatred  of 
Europe  to  its  scornful  affection.  France  is  be- 
ginning to  realise  that  she  can  only  count  upon 
herself. 

Another  essay  of  the  book  discusses  "  culture." 
This  is  a  German  word  which  does  not  sound  well 
in  French.  The  Germans  invented  it  because  it 
was  their  idea  to  blend  moral  influence  and  political 
influence.  No  one  can  adopt  German  culture 
without  working  for  the  extension  of  the  German 
Empire.  French  civilisation,  on  the  other  hand, 
remains  indifferent  to  French  politics,  and  that  is 
why  it  is  European.  Just  as  in  former  times  the 
worst  enemies  of  France,  Frederick  the  Great, 
Catherine   of    Russia,    were    French   in   spirit,    so 

to-day  the  nations  that  are  the  political  enemies  of 

362 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

France  speak  her  language.  But  German  science, 
German  literature,  German  art,  German  civilisation 
are  all  instruments  of  German  politics.  On  ac- 
count of  this  German  attitude  it  is  urgent  to 
defend  this  liberty  of  the  mind,  this  humanity, 
this  French  culture.  And  for  the  Gallic  race  the 
best  means  of  defence  is  to  take  the  offensive. 
When  France  defends  herself,  she  defends  Europe ! 

Much  of  this  seems  almost  trite  to-day ;  but 
the  war  has  only  proved  how  wideawake  this 
Belgian  writer  was  to  the  new  French  spirit. 
Dumont-Wilden  illustrates  his  argument  by  bril- 
liant profiles  of  men  who  stood  to  Europe  for  the 
French  spirit — the  Prince  de  Eigne,  that  Belgian 
soldier  who  fought  for  Austria  and  was  one  of  the 
finest  conversationalists  of  his  day,  as  he  was  the 
forefather  of  modern  Belgian  literature ;  Talley- 
rand ;  Stendhal ;  Maurice  Barres  ;  Andr^  Gide. 
Maeterlinck  he  takes  as  a  representative  of  the 
pseudo- French  spirit. 

Of  the   historians    of   Belgian   literature    none 

has  done  better  work  than  Francis  Nautet,  whose 

Histoire  des  Lettres  Beiges  d' Expression  Frangaise 

was  unfortunately  never  completed.     It  is  a  valu- 

363 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

able  book  which  has  become  very  rare ;  and  a 
reprint  is  one  of  the  needs  of  the  hour.  Nautet 
was  in  the  swim  of  the  movement  in  the  'eighties, 
and  his  enthusiasm,  as  Verhaeren  says,  "joyously 
harnessed  itself  in  front  of  the  car  of  the  first 
harvests  of  our  art."  Maurice  Gauchez  apparently 
aims  at  being  the  Belgian  Remy  de  Gourmont ; 
the  three  heavy  volumes  of  Le  Livre  des  Masques 
Beiges  are  modelled  on  the  French  Livres  des 
Masques.  The  portraits  are  interesting ;  and  some- 
thing can  be  gleaned  from  the  criticism,  though 
one  refuses  to  believe  that  even  a  little  country  like 
Belgium,  where  admission  to  the  literary  caf^s  and 
a  nodding  acquaintance  with  the  lions  seem  to  entitle 
a  writer  to  fame,  can  produce  such  multitudinous 
hordes  of  geniuses.  Gauchez  has  also  written  a 
serviceable  book  on  Verhaeren.  His  poetry  {Images 
de  Hollander  191 2  ;  Pay  sages  Suisses,  191 3)  is 
laboured  and  cold.  Eugene  Gilbert's  criticism  is 
somewhat  biassed  by  his  Roman  Catholic  stand- 
point, but  his  critical  essays  iyEn  Marge  de  quelques 
Pages :  France  et  Beigique)  are  often  illuminating. 
In  Les  Lettres  Frangaises  dans  la  Beigique  dAu- 

jourd hui {\<^o(i)  he  has  written  the  handiest  manual 

364 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

of  modern  Belgian  letters.  Firmin  van  den  Bosch 
(now  a  member  of  the  International  Tribunal  in 
Egypt)  is  a  critic  of  equal  reputation  and  similar 
tendencies  {^Essais  de  Critique  Catholique ;  Les 
Lettres  et  la  Vie;  Coups  de  Plumes;  Impressions 
de  Litterature  Contemporaine\ 

The  representative  Belgian  writer  of  books  of 
travel  is  Jules  Leclercq.  His  latest  volume  is  La 
Finlande  aux  mille  Lacs  (19 14);  other  books  of 
his  are  Les  lies  Forhmees,  Au  Pays  de  Paul  et 
Virginie,  Java ;  but  he  is  an  inveterate  globe- 
trotter, and  he  has  described  his  experiences  in 
nearly  every  part  of  the  world. 

It  would  require  a  whole  book  to  deal  with  the 

art  critics  of  Belgium.     There  would  not  be  much 

risk   in   assuming  that  every  writer  of  distinction 

has   one    or   more   books   of   art   criticism   to   his 

credit.      (Maeterlinck   is   the    only   exception   that 

occurs  to  one.)     Of  the  writers  in  Flemish,  there 

is  a  multitude  of  books  by  Max  Rooses  and  Pol 

de    Mont,    some   of   which    have    been    translated 

into  English.     Of  the  many  who  write  in  French, 

Fierens-Gevaert  might  be  singled  out  for  special 

mention.     He  makes  art  criticism  a  romance.     One 

365 


Contemporary   Belgian  Literature 

of  his  best  books  is  La  Peinture  au  Musee  de 
Bruxelles. 

Of  the  academic  scholars  there  are  few  who 
have  an  international  reputation.  The  academic 
life  of  Belgium  is  the  least  satisfactory  aspect  of 
its  intellectual  activity.  Professors  are  apparently 
appointed  because  they  are  orthodox  and  sup- 
porters of  the  Government ;  originality  is  vetoed. 
There  are,  however,  some  Belgian  scholars  of 
distinction.  In  philosophy  Georges  Dwelshauers 
has  a  considerable  reputation,  at  all  events  in 
Belgium.  The  two  scholars  who  have  first-class 
importance  as  men  of  letters  are  the  historian 
Henri  Pirenne  and  the  philologist  Maurice  Wil- 
motte. 

Henri  Pirenne  was  born  at  Verviers,  was  the 
disciple  at  the  University  of  Liege  of  Godefroid 
Kurth,  the  author  of  Les  Origines  de  la  Civilisa- 
tion Moderne,  continued  his  studies  in  Paris, 
Leipzig,  and  Berlin,  and  in  1889  established  his 
reputation  by  his  specialist  work  Histoire  de  la 
Constitution  de  la  Ville  de  Dinant,  His  Les 
Anciennes  Democraties  des  Pays-Bas,  dealing  with 

the    establishment    of    trading     centres,    is    more 

366 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

popular  in  tone.    Appointed  Professor  of  History  at 
Ghent,  he  devoted  his  best  energies  to  the  writing 
of  his  Histoire  de  Belgique  (four  volumes,   1899- 
191 1 ),  which  was   published  in    German  before  it 
appeared  in  French.     This  history  has  in  Belgium 
itself  had  something  of  the  popular  success  which 
that    of    Macaulay    achieved    in    England.      The 
Belgians    are    notoriously     poor    readers,     owing 
perhaps  to  the  mediocrity  of  their  educational  in- 
stitutions—  the  great   Belgian    writers    have   their 
public    in    France   and    (alas !)    in   Germany ;    but 
Pirenne  is  a  Belgian  writer  who  is  actually  read 
at  home.     The  education  of  an  officer  is  not  com- 
plete till  he  has  read  the  national  historian ;    and 
the  History  is  in  great  demand  as  a  prize  in  schools 
and    colleges.     Parties   go  to  the  work  to  justify 
their  theories  ;  Edmond  Picard's  party  in  particular 
finds    in   it   the   confirmation   of   the    theory   that 
Belgium   exists   and   that    there    are    and    always 
have  been  Belgians.     Pirenne  himself  is  free  from 
party  bias ;   he  is  a  scientific  historian,  a  Walloon 
with  a  scholar's  extensive  knowledge  of  the  Flemish 
language  and  of  Flemish  literature,  a  cosmopolitan 

who  can  see  the  part  which  Germany  and  France 

367 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

together   have   had    in   the    making    of    Belgium. 
He  says : 

"  Like  our  soil,  formed  by  the  alluvia  of  rivers  coming 
from  France  and  Germany,  our  national  culture  is  a  sort 
of  syncretism  in  which  can  be  found,  blended  and  modified 
the  one  by  the  other,  the  genius  of  two  races.  Solicited 
on  all  sides,  our  culture  has  been  broadly  receptive.  It  is 
open  like  our  frontiers,  and  in  it  are  to  be  found,  in  its 
periods  of  blossoming,  the  best  elements  of  Franco-German 
civiHsation  richly  and  harmoniously  assembled.  It  is  in 
this  admirable  receptivity,  in  this  rare  aptitude  of  assimila- 
tion, that  the  originality  of  Belgium  resides.  It  is  this 
which  has  enabled  us  to  render  signal  services  to  Europe, 
it  is  to  this  that  our  country  is  indebted  for  the  possession 
of  a  national  life  common  to  each  of  the  two  races  it 
contains,  without  sacrificing  the  individuality  of  each." 

Pirenne  is  perhaps  the  only  man  of  letters  in 

Belgium  who  has  made    a  fortune  by  the  sale  of 

his    works    among    his   own    countrymen.       How 

extensive  his  sales  are  (for  Belgium)  may  be  seen 

from  the  fact  that  more  than  seven  hundred  copies 

of    the    fourth    volume   of    his   history   were    sold 

in  three  days.     With    the    proceeds   he    has   built 

a  villa   in    the    Ardennes.     One    may   agree  with 

Firmin  van  den   Bosch,  who  says:  "  If,  some  day, 

Belgium  were  to  be  erased  from  the  map  of  the 

368 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

world,  Henri  Pirenne's  History  of  Belgium  would 
survive  as  the  immortal  and  moving  Will  and 
Testament  of  a  little  nation  which  through  the 
centuries  affirmed  the  obstinate  consciousness  of 
its  destiny." 

Maurice  Wilmotte,  a  professor  at  the  University 
of  Li^ge,  a  Romance  philologist  who  ranks  with 
the  best  of  those  in  Germany  and  France,  and 
the  editor  of  La  Revue  de  Belgique,  is,  politically, 
an  antagonist  of  Pirenne.  To  Pirenne,  Belgium 
is  a  blend ;  Wilmotte  asserts,  in  his  La  Culture 
Franfaise  en  Belgique  (19 13)  that  the  two  races 
have  never  blended.  Each  race,  according  to  him, 
keeps  the  originality  of  its  temperament ;  and  the 
task  of  either  is  to  rise  to  the  great  current  of 
French  culture.  "  The  Belgians  have  no  national 
literature,"  he  says. 

Of  one  Belgian  critic,  the  Viscount  Charles  de 
Spoelberch  de  Lovenjoul,  it  may  be  said  that  he 
invented  a  new  manner  of  criticism.  He  was  a 
patient  collector  of  first  editions  and  of  biblio- 
graphical material  concerning  the  lives  of  great 
writers,  especially  of  the  writers  of  the  Romantic 

School.      In   La    Veritable   Histoire   de   ''Elle   et 

369  2  A 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

LuV  he  throws  light  on  the  relations  of  Alfred 
de  Musset  and  Georges  Sand.  Other  works  of 
his  are :  U Histoire  des  CEuvres  de  H.  de  Balzac, 
La  Genese  dun  Roman  de  Balzac,  Une  Page 
Perdue  de  H.  de  Balzac,  Autour  de  H.  de  Balzac, 
L' Histoire  des  CEuvres  de  Th.  Gautier,  Un  Roman 
d Amour,  Les  Lundis  dun  Chercheur,  Sainte- 
Beuve  Inconnu,  Trouvailles  dun  Bibliophile. 

There  are  several  other  authors  of  distinction 
who  would  have  been  worthy  of  enumeration  in 
this  chapter  if  there  had  been  space.  There  are 
individual  books  of  excellent  criticism  such  as 
Gustave  Abel's  Labeur  de  la  Prose,  Gerard 
Harry's  Maurice  Maeterlinck  (translated  by  Alfred 
Allinson),  Etudes  et  Portraits  Litteraires  by 
M.  J.  Carez,  D^sir^  Horrent's  Ecrivains  Beiges 
dAujourdhui.  Finally,  the  chief  reviews  should 
be  mentioned,  for  they  contain  much  that  has 
permanent  value,  and  much  that  is  not  reprinted 
in  book  form  (for  there  are  so  few  Belgian  pub- 
lishers that  authors,  unless  their  work  attracts 
sufficient  attention  to  catch  the  eye  of  Paris 
publishers,   have   often    to    issue   their    books    at 

their   own   expense).     The    most    artistic   of    the 

370 


Essayists,  Critics,  and  Scholars 

literary  magazines  is  perhaps  Le  Masque,  edited  by 
Gr^goire  Le  Roy  and  Georges  Marlow.  Its  career 
has  been  somewhat  erratic,  like  its  contributors,  but 
that  is  only  a  further  claim  on  collectors.  Georges 
Rency's  La  Vie  Intellectuelle  believes  devoutly  in 
Pdme  beige  and  the  possibility  of  a  national 
literature,  upholds  the  theory  that  those  Belgian 
authors  who  migrate  to  Paris  lose  caste,  and  sedu- 
lously recommends  itself  and  its  ideals  to  the 
present  King  and  Queen,  who  are  said  to  take  an 
interest  in  the  national  literature,  even  in  so  anti- 
Catholic  a  writer  as  Verhaeren,  who  is  received 
at  Court.  La  Vie  Intellectuelle  is  a  combative 
review,  full  of  zest  and  go.  (One  of  the  contri- 
butors  to  its  back  pages,  by  the  way,  was  Emile 
Cammaerts,  who  wrote  the  monthly  letter  from 
London.)  Le  Thyrse,  edited  by  Leopold  Rosy, 
is  rather  derisive  of  the  "Belgian"  ideals.  It 
sides  with  Maurice  Wilmotte,  and  its  belief  in 
the  intellectual  mediocrity  of  Belgium  is  unshak- 
able. Wilmotte's  Revue  de  Belgique  is  learned 
and  academic.  L' Art  Moderne  and  La  Belgique 
Artistique  et  Litteraire    are   competent   in   their 

discussion  of  art  and  literature,  while  Durendal  is 

371 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

the  organ  of  the  Roman  Catholic  men  of  letters. 
Of  the  reviews  in  Flemish  the  chief  are  Van  Nu 
en  Straks  and  Vlaanderen. 

Perhaps  one  should  say  of  these  reviews : 
They  were.  .  .  .  But  we  may  expect  them  to 
arise  from  their  ashes  when  peace  comes,  and  it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  they  will  then  be  admittedly 
'*  Belgian."  For,  as  Stuart  Merrill  has  said,  if 
Belgium  did  not  exist,  it  would  have  to  be  in- 
vented. 


372 


BIBLIOGRAPHY    (Selectedy 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM   BELGIAN   AUTHORS 

The  Massacre  of  the  Innocents  and  other  Tales  by  Belgian 

Writers.       Translated    by    Edith    Wingate    Kinder. 

Chicago:  Stone  and  Kimball,  1895. 
Contemporary   Belgian    Poetry.     Selected    and   Translated 

by    Jethro    Bithell.       "Canterbury    Poets"    Series. 

London:  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Co.,  Ltd.,  191 1. 
Contemporary  Flemish  Poetry.      Selected    and   Translated 

by   Jethro    Bithell.       "  Canterbury    Poets "    Series. 

Walter    Scott    Publishing    Co.,    Ltd.,    1915.       (In 

Preparation.) 
Camille  Lemonnier.     Birds  and  Beasts.     Translated    by 

A.    R.    AlUnson  ;     Illustrated    by    E.    J.    Detmold. 

London:  George  Allen  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  191 1. 
■femile  Verhaeren.      The  Dawn  (Les  Aubes).     Translated 

by   Arthur    Symons.     "  Modern    Plays."     London : 

Duckworth,  1898. 
Poems  by  Emile  Verhaeren.     Selected  and  rendered  into 

English    by  Alma    Strettel.     London :    John    Lane, 

1899. 
Second  Edition,  191  5. 

*  In  particular,  the  numerous  translations  of  Maeterlinck's  works 
are  omitted,  as  these  are  well  known  and  easily  accessible. 

373 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

fimile  Verhaeren.      The  Cloister.     Translated   by  Osman 

Edwards.     London:  Constable,  191  5. 
Belgium's  Agony.     Translated  by  M.  T.  H.  Sadler. 

London:  Constable,  191  5. 
The  Plays  of  ^tnile  Verhaeren.     London:  Constable,  191 5. 

(Contains  The  Dawn,  translated  by  Arthur  Symons  ; 

The  Cloister,  translated  by  Osman  Edwards  ;  Philip  II, 

translated  by  F.  S.  Flint ;  Helen  of  Sparta,  translated 

by  Jethro  Bithell.) 
The  Love  Poems  of  Emile  Verhaeren.     Translated  by  F.  S. 

Flint.     London:  Constable,  191  5. 


ANTHOLOGIES 

Pamasse  de  la  feune  Belgique.     Paris  :  Leon  Vanier,  1887. 

Poises  Beiges  d' Expression  Frangaise,  par  Pol  de  Mont. 
Almelo:  W.  Hilarius,  1899. 

Anthologies  of  the  works  of  Edmond  Picard,  Camille 
Lemonnier,  £mile  Verhaeren,  Georges  Rodenbach, 
Octave  Pirmez,  Andre  van  Hasselt,  Jules  Destree, 
Max  Waller,  Georges  Eekhoud,  Charles  van  Ler- 
berghe,  Albert  Giraud,  Iwan  Gilkin,  Eugene  Demolder, 
and  Fernand  Severin  are  published  by  the  Associa- 
tion des  ficrivains  Beiges,  Brussels. 

Les  Conteurs  de  Chez  Nous.  Brussels :  Association  des 
£crivains  Beiges. 


374 


Bibliography 


CRITICISM 

Bazalgette,  Leon.  Camille  Lemonnier.  "Les  Cdl^brit^s 
d'Aujourd'hui."     Paris :   F,  Sansot  &  Cie.,  1 904. 

Emile  Verhaeren.     "  Les  Cddbrit^s  d'Aujourd'hui." 

Paris:  F.  Sansot  &  Cie.,  1907. 

Bersaucourt,  Albert  de.  Thomas  Braun.  Paris :  Les 
Marches  de  I'Est,  19 13. 

Conference    sur    Emile    Verhaeren.     Paris,    Jouve, 

1908. 

Bever,  Adolphe  van.  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  "Les  Celd- 
britds  d'Aujourd'hui."     Paris:  Sansot  &  Cie.,  1904. 

Bithell,  Jethro.  Life  and  Writings  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck. 
"  Great   Writers "    Series.      London :    Walter   Scott 

(1913)- 
Bosch,  Firmin  van  den.     Essais    de    Critique    Catholique. 

Ghent:    1898. 

Impressions  de  Literature  Contemporaine.    Brussels  : 

Vromant  et  Cie.,  1905. 

Les  Lettres  et  la    Vie.     Brussels :   Albert   Dewit, 

1912. 

Daxhelet,  A.    Georges  Rodenbach.     Brussels  :  O.  Scheffens, 

1899. 
Destree,  J.     Les  Ecrivains  Beiges  Contemporains.     Syllabus 

d'un    Cours    d'Extension    Universitaire.      Brussels : 

1897. 
Gauchez,  Maurice,     ^mile  Verhaeren.     Brussels :  Editions 
du  "Thyrse,"  1908. 

375 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Gauchez,  Maurice.    Le  Livre  des  Masques  Beiges.    Masques 

de  Franz  Gailliard.     Preface  de  J.   Ernest  Charles. 

3  large  vols.     Paris  and  Mons :  La  Socidte  Nouvelle, 

1909,  1910,  1911. 
Gilbert,  Eugene.     En  Marge  de  Quelques  Pages.     Paris : 

Plon,  Nourrit  et  Cie.,  1900. 

France  et  Belgique.     Paris :   Plon,  Nourrit  et  Cie., 

1905. 

Les  Lettres  Fran^aises  dans  la  Belgique  d'Aujour- 

d'hui.     Paris:  F.  Sansot  &  Cie.,  1906. 

Iwan  Gilkin.     Ghent:   I,  Vanderpoorten,  1908. 

Gilkin,    Iwan.      Les    Origines    Estudiantines  de  la  *' Jeune 

Belgique  "  a  T  Universite' de  Louvain.  Brussels  :  Editions 
de  "La  Belgique  Artistique  et  Littdraire,"  1909. 

Guerin,  Charles.  Georges  Rodenbach,  Nancy :  Crdpin 
Leblond,  1895. 

Harry,  Gerard.  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  Brussels :  Ch. 
Carrington,  1909.  {Le  Massacre  des  Lnnocents, 
otherwise  only  accessible  in  French  in  La  Pleiade 
for  May  1886,  is  reprinted  at  the  end). 

A  biographical   study,  with   two  essays  by 

M.  Maeterlinck.  Translated  by  Alfred  Allinson. 
London:   George  Allen  &  Sons,  19 10. 

Heumann,  Albert.  Emile  Verhaeren.  Avec  onze  dessins 
par  Georges  Tribout.     Paris  :  La  Belle  fidition. 

Le  Mouvement  Litteraire  Beige  d Expression  Frangaise 

depuis  1880.  Preface  par  M.  Camille  JuUian,  de 
rinstitut.      Paris:   Mercure  de  France,  191 3. 

Horrent,  Ddsire.  Ecrivains  Beiges  d^ Aujourd' hut.  Brussels : 
Lacomblez,  1904. 

376 


Bibliography 


Kinon,  Victor.  Portraits  d'Auteurs.  Brussels  :  Associa- 
tion des  ficrivains  Beiges,  19 lo. 

Lemonnier,  Camilla.  La  Vie  Beige.  Paris :  Fasquelle, 
1905. 

Liebrecht,  Henri.  Histoire  de  la  Litt^rature  Beige  dEx- 
pression  Frangaise.  Deuxi6me  Edition.  Preface 
d'Edmond  Picard.  Brussels :  Librairie  Vander- 
lenden,    191 3. 

Meyere  [Meijere],  Victor  de.  Un  Romancier  Flamand: 
Cyriel  Buysse.     Paris:  Sansot  &  Cie.,  1904. 

Mockel,  Albert.  Emile  Verhaeretty  avec  une  note  bio- 
graphique  par  F.  Vield-Griffin.  Paris :  Mercure  de 
France,  1895. 

Charles  van  Lerberghe,    Paris :  Mercure  de  France, 

1904. 

Nautet,  Francis.     Histoire  des  Lettres  Beiges  cC Expression 

Frangaise.     Brussels:  Rozez,  1892. 
Pasquier,  Alix.     Edmond  Picard.     Brussels :   Association 

des  ficrivains  Beiges,  191 3. 
Potvin,    Ch.      Ch.    de   Coster.     Sa    Biographie.     Lettres   a 

Elisa.     Brussels,  1894. 
Ramaekers,  Georges.     E.  Verhaeren.     Brussels :  Editions 

de  "La  Lutte,"  1900. 
Rency,    Georges.       Physionomies    Litteraires.       Brussels : 

Associations  des  ficrivains  Beiges,  1907. 
Ridder,  Andr6  de.      Stijn  Streuvels.     Zijn   Leven  en   zijn 

Werk,      Amsterdam  :  L.  J.  Veen  (no  date). 

en  Gust  van  Roosbroeck.     Pol  de  Mont.     "  Mannen 

en    Vrouwen     van     Beteekenis    in     onze     Dagen." 
Haarlem:  H.  D.  Tjenk  Willink  en  Zoon,  19 10. 

377 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 

Rodrigue,  G.  M.     Fernand  Slverin.      Brussels :   Editions 

du  "Thryse,"  1908. 
Souguenet,  L^on.     Les  Monstres  Beiges.    Brussels  :    1 904. 
Thiry,     Oscar.       La    Miraculeuse    Aventure    des    Jeunes 

Belgiques  (1880- 1 896).     Brussels:  Editions  de  la 

Belgique  Artistique  et  Littdraire,  191 2. 
Thomas,  Edward.  Maurice  Maeterlinck,    London  :  Methuen, 

1911. 
Verhaeren,    Emile.     Les    Lettres    Frangaises   en    Belgique. 

Brussels:  Lamertin,  1907. 
Vermeylen,  A.     La  Poesie  Flamande  de    1880   a    191  o. 

Ghent:  Vanderpoorten,  191 2. 
Zweig,     Stefan.       Emile     Verhaeren.       Leipzig :     Insel- 

Verlag,  19 10. 

Traduit  par  Paul  Morisse  et  Henri  Chervet. 

Paris :  Mercure  de  France,  1 9 1  o. 

Translated    by    Jethro    Bithell.       London : 


Constable,  1915. 


378 


NOTE 

Some  of  the  verse  translations  in  this  volume  are 
taken  from  my  two  books  Contemporary  Belgian 
Poetry  and  Contemporary  Flemish  Poetry  in  the 
"  Canterbury  Poets  "  Series,  and  thanks  are  due  to 
Messrs.  The  Walter  Scott  Publishing  Co.,  Ltd.,  for 
their  authorization  to  quote  them.  I  have  also  to 
thank  Mr.  Heinemann  for  his  permission  to  quote  a 
scene  from  La  Princesse  Maleine.  The  poems  from 
Georges  Rodenbach's  Le  Regne  du  Silence  are  repro- 
duced by  permission  of  Monsieur  Eugene  Fasquelle. 

J.  B. 


379 


INDEX 


Abel,  Gustave,  370 

Albert,  King,  282,  371 

Amiel,  H.  F.,  28 

Amsterdam,  269—270 

Anarchism,  96,  99,  loi,  106,  107 

Andre,  Paul,  306-307 

Antie,  227 

Antwerp,  18,  20,  22,  23,  85,  87, 
88,  94  fi.,  103  ff.,  115,  117,  229, 
231.  233.  236,  238,  282,  343 

Ardennes,  the,  306 

Arenbergh,  ilfimile  van,  44,  58 

Army,  the  Belgian,  93-94,  105, 
282,  307 

Artiste,  L',  43 

Art  Moderne,  L',  53,  56,  371 

Austria,  304,  330,  363 

Baie,  Eugfene,  358 

Balzac,  Honor6  de,  17,  30,  265, 

370 
Baudelaire,   Charles,  49,   57,    58, 

63,  126,  257 
Bazalgette,  L6on,  66 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  104 
"  Belgian,"  the  term,  viii,  55—56, 

289.    305,    355-356,    359.    367. 

369,  371 
Belgique  Artistique  et  Littiraire, 

La,  371 
Bemmei,  Eugene  van,  29 
Berlin,  203—204 
Bernard,  Charles,  358 
Bjornsen,  Bjornstjeme,  16,  324 
Blockx,  Jan,  46 
Boer  War,  269 
Bois,  Albert  du,  307—308 
Bonmariage,  Sylvain,  309—310 
Bosch,    Firmin  van     den,      365, 

368 
Bouch6,  Ferdinand,  3 10,  327 
Braun,  Thomas,  237,  239-242 
Bruges,  22,  23,  24,  74,  83,  190  fi., 

I97ff.,  315,350-351 


380 


Brussels,  viii,  29,  40,  52,  56,  61, 
63,  74,  84,  89,  109,  119,  130, 
190,  203,  205,  212,  249,  287, 
293.  299,  308,  328,  347 

Bruyn,  Edmond  de,  238 

Buysse,  Cyriel,  26,  316,  324  fi. 

Byron,  Lord,  22,  201,  330 

Cammaerts,  ifimile,  371 
Campine,  the,  32,  85-87,  89,  98, 

99,  106,  279,  280 
Carez,  M.  J..  370 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  116,  117 
Chainaye,  Hector,  219 
Christianity,  81—82 
Conscience,  Hendrik,  20  ff.,   93, 

99 
Copp6e,  Francois,  49 
Coster,  Charles  de,  28  ff.,  42,  43, 

63.  145.  309 
Courouble,  Leopold,  293,  299 
Courtrai,  23,  315 
Crane,  Walter,  175,  176 
Croisset,  Francis  de,  viii 
Crommelynck,    Ferdinand,    285— 

287 

Davignon,  Henri,  305-306 
Delacre,  Jules,  250-252 
Delattre,  Louis,  290-293 
Delchevalerie,  Charles,  303—304 
Deman,  Edmond,  48 
Demblon,  C61estin,  159,  219,  222, 

304 
Demolder,  Eugene,  62, 153, 264  ff., 

281,  289,  298 
De  Quincey,  99 
Destree,  Jules,  219,  356-357 
Devos,  Prosper  Henri,  308 
Dickens,  Charles,  96 
Dominique,  Jean,  208,  210,  249 
Drama,  see  Plays,  Belgian 
Dumont-Wilden,    Louis,    186   ff., 

307.  358  ff- 


Index 


Durendal,  237,  371 
Dutch,  13,  16,  18 
Dutch  poetry,  330 
Dwelshauers,  Georges,  366 
Dyck,  Ernest  van,  47 

Ebers,  Georg,  308 

Edwards.  Osman,  145 

Eekhoud,  Georges,  17,  22-23,  32. 

S3.  55,  62,  74,  85  flf.,  277.  279, 

281,  282,  289,  304,  323 
Elskamp,  Max,  14,  56,  153,  229  fE., 

266-267 
Emerson,  R.  W.,  178 
English   hterature,    influence   of, 

22,  96,  99,  104,  162,  175,  203, 

.304,  330.  333.  335 
Etoile  Beige,  L',  89,  306 

Fierens-Gevaert,  365 
Fitzgerald,  Edward,  163 
Flamingants,  14,  19,  21,  24,  26,  39, 

111,  IIS,  329 

Flanders,  12,  31-32,  35,  41,  y/  fE., 

109, 146,  199,  229,  230 
Flemings,  the,  14,  15,  17,  18,  19, 

20,  31  ff.,  104,  109  fi.,  120,  219, 

279  S.,  289-290,  305,   314  ff,, 

329  flf. 
Flemish  coast,   80  ff.,    100,    loi, 

146,  265-267 
Flemish  language,  the,  13,  15,  16, 

18—20,  55,  87,  112— 115 
Flemish  movement,  19, 22,  26,  45, 

46,  219 
Flor6al,  225,  303 
Folksongs,  160,  218,  339 
Fonson,  Franz,  299 
Fontainas,   Andr6,    54,    56,    176, 

245-247 
Fransquillons,  14 
Fredericq,  Paul,  18 
Free-thinking  party,  19,  26,  39 
French  culture,    13,    14,    19,  22, 

112,  220,  359  ff.,  368,  369 

French  language,  the,  12,  15,  19, 
50,  55,  III,  113  ff.,  329 

Fumes,  80  ff.,  146 

Futurism,  76,  132,  147-148,  183- 
184 

Galileo,  205 
Gamir,  Georges,  59,  293 
Gauchez,  Maurice,  295,  364 
Gautier,  Th6ophile,  58,  63,  370 


George,  Stefan,  203,  225,  330 
G6rardy,  Paul,  viii,  225-227 
German  culture,  13,  14, 19,  362  ff., 

368 
German   literature,   influence   of, 

124,  18s,  286,  330,  337 
Germany,  40,  109-111,  112,  115, 

123,  154,  220,  225,  227,  239, 

330-331.  367 
Gevaert,  Fierens,  365 
Gezelle,  Guido,  16,  23,  25,  26,  42, 

43,  315 
Ghent,  18,  22,  45,  118,  152,  154, 

187,    190,  201,   212,   283,   284, 

316,  324,  347,  367 
Ghil,  Ren6,  223 
Gilbert,  Eugene,  265,  299,  364 
Gilkin,  Iwan,  14,  44,  47,  49,  53, 

55,  56,  73,  124,  257  ff.,  356 
Gille,  Val^re,  55,  56,  58-59 
Giraud,  Albert,  45,  49,  53,  55,  56, 

124,  153,253-256,  309,329 
Glesener,  Edmond,  311—313 
Goethe,  J.  W.,  180 

Goffin,  Arnold,  159,  357 
Goncourt,  Edmond  de,  1 91 
Gorky,  Maxime,  107 
Gosse,  Edmund,  58,  224 
Gourmont,  Remy  de,  364 
Greenaway,  Kate,  175,  176 

Hannon,  Theodore,  43,   57,   58, 

89 
Hardy,  Thomas,  86 
Harry,  G6rard,  370 
Hasselt,  Andr6  van,  26-27 
Hauptmann,  Gerhart,  81,  180 
Hellens,  Franz,  282-285,  286 
Heredia,  J.  M.  de,  58 
Herrick,  Robert,  24 
Herzog,  Rudolf,  97 
Heyse,  Paul,  185 
Hofmannsthal,  Hugo  von,  330 
Hoffmann,  E.  T.  A.,  293 
Holland,   13,   16,   18,   19,  24,  26, 

36,  267  ff. 
Horrent,  D6sir6,  370 
Hugo,    Victor,  26,  65,   148,  201, 

304 
Humour,  234,  299,  323 
Huysmans,  J  oris  Karl,  vii 
Hymans,  Louis,  43 

Ibsen,  Henrik,  287 
Impressionists,  283,  347 


381 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 


Ingoyghem,  26,  318 

Isi -Collin,  227-228 

Italy,  28,  63,  132,  203-205 

Jammes,  Francis,  238,  239 
Jeune  Belgique,   La,    52    ff.,   60, 

152,  153.  307 
Jordaens,  Jakob,  103,  106,  120 

Keats,  John,  46 
Kermesses,  89,  90,  93,  280 
KhnopflE,  Femand,  213,  359 
Khnopff,  Georges,  231 
Kinon,  Victor,  237-239 
Kistemaeckers,  Henry,  viii 
Krains,  Hubert,  293-295 
Kurth,  Godefroid,  366 

Lacomblez  ,  Paul,  39 

La  Fontaine,  Jean  de,  268 

Langendonck,  Prosper  van,  347- 

349 
Leblanc,  Madame  Georgette,  150, 

181 
Leclercq,  Jules,  365 
Ledeganck,    Karel    L.,    22,     23, 

330 
Lemonnier,  Canaille,   39,  40,   41, 

43,  60  fE.,  89,  146,  15 1,  281 ,  289, 

290,  314,  323,  354 
Leonard,  Fran9oi9,  308 
Leopold  II,  227 
Lerberghe,  Charles  van,    54,    56, 

57,  152,  153,  157.  176.  200  ff., 

212,  218,  223,  229,  249 
Le  Roy,  Gr6goire,  54,   152,  200, 

212  ff.,  247,  370 
Le  Sage,  A.  R.,  312 
Lessing,  G.  E.,  268 
Liebrecht,  Henri,  309 
Li6ge,  15,  21,  219,  227,  304,  311, 

366 
Ligne,  Prince  de,  363 
LiUencron,  Detlev  von,  337 
Limbosch,  Raymond,  263 
Livingstone,  David,  315 
London,  vii,   129,  130,    131,   145, 

203,  358 
Longfellow,  H.  W.,  213,  330 
Louvain,  28,  43  ff.,  62,  85,  118 
Louys,  Pierre,  307 
Loveling,  Rosalie,  324 
Loveling,  Virginie,  324 


Macaulay,  Lord,  367 

MaeterUnck,  Maurice,  27,  54,  56, 
57,  76,  103,  104,  108,  III,  112, 
114,  lis,  124,  150  ff.,  192,  200, 
201,  202,  205,  212,  265,  276, 
283,  286-287,  300,  304,  307, 
324,  354,  363,  365,  370 

Mahutte,  Franz,  53,  307 

MaUnes,  85,  98,  99 

Mallarme,  Stephane,  153,  161, 
191,  222,  245,  351 

Mann,  Thomas,  97 

Marinetti,  F.  T.,  148 

Marlow,  Georges,  247,  371 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  104 

Masque,  Le,  215,  371 

Maubel,  Henri,  53,  54,  55,  300 

Maupassant,  Guy  de,  49,  311, 
324 

Meunier,  Constantin,  71 

Merrill,  Stuart,  372 

Meyere,  Victor  de,  346-347 

Michaelis,  Karin,  306 

Minne,  Georges,  213 

Mirbeau,  Octave,  1 61-162 

Mockel,  Albert,  65,  176,  202,  204, 
207,  218,  227,  245,  260,  286 

Mons,  109 

Mont,  Pol  de,  26,  45—47,  266, 
330  ff.,  365 

Montague,  Victor  de  la,  342—343 

Montenaeken,  Leon,  59 

Montfort,  Eugene,  310 

Morisseaux,  Fran90is  Charles,  306, 

309 
Morris,  William,  233 
Mysticism,  17,  28,  32,  80  ff.,  114, 

169,  178,  190  ff.,  231,  238,  280, 

283 

Namur,  64 

Nautet,    Francis,    14,    55,    363- 

364 
Nietzsche,  F.  W.,  108,  211,  228, 

361 
Nieuport,  146 
Nordau,  Max,  162 
Nothomb,  Pierre,  238,  245 

Offel,  Edmond  van,  343—346 
Offel,  Horace  van,  281,  289 
Ombiaux,  Maurice  des,  295—299, 

308 
Optimism,  182 
Owlglass,  Till,  33-34 


382 


Index 


Pan -Germanism,  40,  46,  330 

Pantheism,  212,  228 

Paris,  vii,  viii,  26,  49—50,  53,  54, 

56,  84,  152,  154,  190,  201,  212, 

219, 245 
Parnasse  de  la  Jeune  Belgique,  Le, 

54  fE.,  201 
Parnassians,  53,  54,  56,  253  fi. 
Pessimism,   28,    57,    58,    123    flE., 

159.  193.  318,  356.  357 
Philip  II,  36,  14s 
Picard,  Edmond,  53,  62,  73,  74, 

119,264,  354-356,  359,  367 
Pioneer  Players,  the,  228 
Pirenne,  Henri,  366-369 
Pirmez,  Octave,  28 
Plays,  Belgian,  viii,  46,  104,  144- 

146,  161  ff.,  185-186,  211-212, 

228,    277,   282-283,   286,   287- 

288.  299-300,  305,  308,  309,  355 
PUiade,  La,  152,  201,  212 
Pol    de    Mont,    26,    45-47,    266, 

330  fE.,  365 
Potvin,  Charles,  29,  43 
Pre-RaphaeUtes,    the,    175,    176, 

245 
Prosody,  27,  234 

Rabelais,  30,  32,  296 
Ramaekers,  Georges,  238,  242—245 
Rassenfosse,  Armand,  222,  228 
Reahsm,  90,  98,  153,  318 
R6gnier,  Henri  de,  222 
Rembrandt,    50,    114,    144,    271, 

272,  278 
Renard  the  Fox,  30,  33 
Rency,  Georges,  64,  84,  291,  307, 

371 
Revue  de  Belgique,  La,  371 
Rodenbach,  Albrecht,  45  ff.,  51 
Rodenbach,  Georges,  51,  53,  124, 

153.  159. 190-200 
Roidot,  Prosper,  252 
Rollinat,  Maurice,  256 
Romains,  Jules,  147 
Roman  Catholics,  18,  23,  24,  26, 

39,    X12,    122—123,    130,    235, 

237  ff.,  279,  316,  364-365.  372 
Rooses,  Max,  365 
Rops,  FeUcien,  29,  39 
Rosny,  J.  H.,  viii 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  176,  203 
Rosy,  Leopold,  305,  371 
Roulers,  23,  45,  46 
Rousseau,  Blanche,  300-303 


Rouvez,  Auguste,  308 

Rubens,  Peter  Paul,  50,  103,  106, 

122 
Russia,  108,  324 
Ruysbroeck,  Jan,  115,  178 

Sainte-Beuve,  C.  a.,  26,  370 

Satanism,  124,  256  ff. 

Satire,  224,  226-227 

Scheldt,  the,  12,  13,  21,  86,  87, 

89,  115,  118,  266,  273 
Schopenhauer,  Arthur,  124,  286 
Semaine   des   £tudiants.    La,    49, 

51-52,  55 
Severin,    Femand,    56,    57,    253, 

260-263 
Shakespeare,  104,  162,  163,  181, 

304 
Shaw,  G.  B.,  96.  98 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  201 
Socialism,    77-79,    95,    144,    184, 

281,  312,  327,  356 
Sodomy,  99,  101  ff. 
Souguenet,  Leon,  viii,  358 
Spaak,  Paul,  288 
Spain,  31,  36-38,  71,  145,  270,  277 
Speciateur    Catholique,    Le,    237, 

238,  240 
Spoelberch  de  Lovenjoul,  Charles 

de,  369 
Steen.  Jan,  31;,  265,  267,  268,  270, 

278 
Stendhal,  312,  363 
Stiernet,  Hubert,  307 
Streuvels,  Stijn,  26,  33,  310,  314  ff. 
Superman,  the,  120 
Suttner,  Baroness  von,  66 
Symbolism,  91,  140,  169,  170,  290 
Symbolists,  54,  55,  56,  153,  175, 

190  ff.,  270,  286 
Symons,  Arthur,  144,  227 
Swarth,  Hdl^ne,  59 
Swinburne,  A.  C.,  39,  286,  333 
Switzerland,  viii,  88,  loi 


Teirlinck,  Herman,  328 

Teniers,  David,  50,  120 

Tennyson,  Lord,  330,  335 

Termonde,  117 

Thames,  the,  127 

Theatre,  the,  see  Plays,  Belgian 

Thompson,  Vance,  53,  90 

Thyrse,  Le,  208,  305,  306,  371 

Type,  Le,  52 

Till  Eulenspiegel,  33-34 

383 


Contemporary  Belgian  Literature 


Toumai,  190 

Travel,  books  of,  277,  355,  357- 
358.  365 

Universities,  366 

Van  de  Velde,  Henry,  viii,  231- 

232 

Vandervelde,  l^mile,  144,  264 

Vandrunen,  James,  357-358 

Van  Nu  en  Straks,  316,  347,  372 

Verhaeren,  ifimile,  15,  44,  47-48, 
49,  50-51,  53,  54,  56,  76,  83, 
86,  92,  97,  98,  108  ff.,  151,  153. 
159,  183,  192,  194,  200,  201, 
222,  229,  239,  329,  364,  371 

Verlant,  Ernst,  51 

Vermeerscli,  Gustav,  328 

Vermeylen,  August,  328,  347,  350- 
351 

Verriest,  Hugo,  23,  25-26,  45 

Vers  libres,  55,  56,  253 

Vie   Intellectuelle,  La,   204,    292, 

37^ 
Viel6-Griffin,  Francis,  222 
Vierset,  Auguste,  219,  358 
Villiers  de  I'lsle-Adam,  1 52 


Villon,  Franfois,  284 

Virr^s,  Georges,  32,  279-281,  289 

Vlaanderen,  3x7,  372 

Waleffe,  Maurice  de,  308 
Waller,  Max,  52,  54,  57,  58,  90 
Wallonie,  La,  56,   124,   157,   159, 

201,  219,  222—223,  225,  303,  304 
Walloons,  the,  14,  15,  16,  17,  18, 

21, 219, 289  ff. 
War,  65-66,  144,  362 
Wells,  H.  G,  195,  308 
Whitman,  Walt,  134,  155 
Wiart,  Henry  Carton  de,  74,  304 
Wicheler,  Femand,  299 
Willems,  J.  F.,  19—20 
Wilmotte,  Maurice,  366,  369,  371 
Woestijne,  Karel  van  de,  316,  347, 

348,  351-353 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  170 
Ypres,  298 

Zola,  ifimile,  17,  66,  72,  95,  325 
Zweig,  Stefan,  127,  129,  135,  140, 

142 
Zype,  Gustave  van,  287—288 


Printed  by  Ballantyne,  Hanson  6*  Co.,  Ltd. 
Edinburgh  b'  London 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-35TO-9,'62(D221884)4280 


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